THE  STORY 

OF 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


^cxx^_ 


THE  STORY  OF  BABETTE 


A  LITTLE   CREOLE   GIRL 


BY 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART 
AUTHOR  OF 

'  CARLOTTA'S  INTENDED,  AND  OTHER  TALES  "  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW   YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1894 


BY  RUTH  McENERY  STUART. 

CARLOTTA'S  INTENDED,  AND  OTHER  TALES. 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING,  AND  OTHER  TALES. 

Illustrated.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  50  each. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

EF~  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  by  the 
publishers  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or 
Mexico,  on  receipt  of  price. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

Jll  rights  rtfervtd. 


PS 


Enscrffceto 

TO  THE 

LITTLE   GIRLS   OF    NEW   ORLEANS 


THE  AUTHOR 


91656' 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 

BABETTE 

-THE     LE     CHARMANT     FAMILY     WATCHING    THE 

MARDI-GRAS  PROCESSION" Facing^    ^ 

"•BABETTE  IS  LOST!'" 

-DID  ANY  ONE  NOTICE  A  TALL  FIGURE,  WRAPPED 

IN  A  HEAVY  GRAY  SHAWL?" 

-THERE  WAS  NOT  ONE  OF  THE  LOT  WHO  DID  NOT 
COUNT  THE  OLD  WOMAN  A  FAMOUS  FORTUNE- 

TELLER"     

-  HER   LITTLE   COMPANIONS,  WHOSE  PEDIGREE   O 

BEAUTY  WAS  AS  LONG  AS  HER  OWN" 

-ONLY  A  HARD  PALE  FACE  BETRAYED  THE  DEEP 
ANXIETY  OF  HER  HEART" 

"TANTE  ANGELE"    

BABETTE  AND  "LITTLE  MARIE"     .     .     • 
-NOUTE  MADE  DOLL-HOUSES  FOR  BABETTE"  . 
-A  WONDERLAND  BETTER  THAN  A  FAIRY'S  WOOD" 
..-BUT  FOR  MAMZELLE  THEY  SAY  SHE  WOULD  N<    : 

BE  HERE  NOW'" 

-•BUT  I  AM  NOT  MADAME   BONDURANTE'S  NIECE'" 
"•HOW  SWEETLY  SHE  WOULD   FIT  IN-JUST  SO-BE- 

TWEEN  THE  TWO.  ARTHE  AND  FELICIE1'"  . 
-THIS  ILLUMINATING  BEAM   FELL  FOR  A  MOMENT 

UPON  BABETTE'S  FACE 

-THE      ACKNOWLEDGED      BELLE      OF      THE      OLD 

FRENCH  CITY" 


THE   STORY   OF   BABETTE 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  was  Mardi-Gras  night  in  New  Orleans. 
Canal  Street,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
in  either  direction — out  towards  the  river  or 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  swamp  lands — 
was  a  surging  mass  of  people. 

The  deep  balconies,  the  galeries  of  the  old 
French  town,  overhanging  the  banquettes  on 
either  side  the  way,  were  crowded  beyond 
their  strength,  and  many  would  have  fallen 
but  for  the  temporary  support  of  heavy  tim- 
bers put  in  for  the  occasion. 

Above  the  heads  of  the  crowds  little  street 
urchins,  newsboys,  beggars,  gamins — white, 
black,  yellow,  brown,  and  all  the  shades  be- 
tween— sat  perched  like  chattering  sparrows 
on  every  available  projection  of  lamp-post 
or  tree,  many  even  clinging  about  the  tops 
of  street-cars.  Others,  mounting  the  granite 


pedestal  of  Henry  Clay's  statue  at  the  cor- 
ner, steadied  themselves  by  embracing  the 
statesman's  legs;  while  one  or  two  of  the 
more  adventurous  had  even  scaled  his  lofty 
figure  and  sat  astride  his  broad  bronze 
shoulders. 

The  occasional  turning  of  the  great  elec- 
tric searchlight  in  the  Pickwick  Club  build- 
ing revealed  a  rippling  sea  of  happy  smiling 
faces  along  the  line  of  galeries  opposite,  all 
wearing,  no  matter  what  their  race  or  condi- 
tion, the  holiday  expression  which  showed 
them  in  touch  with  the  carnival  spirit. 

On  a  special  balcony,  diagonally  opposite 
the  searchlight,  somewhat  nearer  the  river, 
so  placed  that  they  were  often  within  range 
of  the  revolving  beam,  occupying  all  but 
two  of  the  first  dozen  chairs,  sat  the  good 
old  Creole  family  of  the  good  old  Creole 
name  of ;  let  us  call  it  Le  Charmant. 

The  Maman,  bonne  Maman,  and  a  round 
half-dozen  of  the  last  generation  of  little 
Le  Charmants  were  there  —  an  interesting 
row,  each  one  a  picture  —  and  all  as  much 
alike  as  any  row  of  black-eyed  peas — while 
in  the  last  chair  towards  Royal  Street  sat  a 
stately  old  gray -haired  black  woman  —  An- 
gele. 


•THE    LE    CHI 


i-'AMH-Y    WATCHING    THE    MARDI-GKAS 
PROCESSION  - 


Her  starched  tignon  of  gay  plaid,  rising 
above  her  kindly  face  and  standing  alert  in 
knot  and  frill,  like  ears  pricked  to  listen, 
gave  the  impression  that  her  office  was  that 
of  watch -dog,  and  the  rapid  movement  of 
her  quick  eye  along  the  line,  the  alacrity 
with  which  she  pressed  back  into  her  chair 
any  one  of  the  children  who  leaned  too 
heavily  forward  on  the  railing,  with  her 
quick  little  bark  of  alarm  "Asst  tot!  Tu  tom- 
bez  /"  confirmed  the  impression. 

The  bark  said,  in  "  gumbo  French,"  "  Sit 
down,  before  you  fall !"  but  its  tone  said 
other  things. 

It  said,  "  I  love  these  children,  and  noth- 
ing can  happen  to  them  while  I  am  near." 

A  well-dressed,  prosperous,  and  happy-look- 
ing line  they  were  as  they  sat,  jabbering  and 
jabbering,  sometimes  in  French — but  often- 
er  in  broken  English — their  best,  in  polite 
respect  to  the  Americans  among  whom  they 
sat. 

The  great  Mystick  Krewe  had  already 
passed  along  the  street  and  disappeared,  but 
it  would  soon  come  again  in  another  direc- 
tion. 

And  so  the  waiting  crowd  remained  in- 
tact, while  animated  discussions  regarding 


the  comparative  merits  of  this  with  former 
pageants  filled  up  the  interval  of  waiting. 

The  comments  of  the  Le  Charmant  chil- 
dren were  much  like  hundreds  of  others  who 
exclaimed  enthusiastically  in  the  wake  of  the 
mystic  wonder. 

"Well,  me,  I  think  it  is  the  finest  Mardi- 
Gras  we  ever  had  !"  exclaimed  Marie,  a  little 
maid  of  eight. 

"  What  you  say,  G'an  ?"  she  added,  as  she 
leaned  over  the  soft  lap  of  her  grandmother. 

(When  'Toinette — tall,  dimpled,  beautiful 
Toinette,  the  eldest,  who  sits  next  her  moth- 
er to-night — first  began  to  talk,  she  had  called 
her  grandmother  "  G'an,"  her  best  effort  to 
please  an  American  nurse,  and  "  G'an  "  she 
had  been  to  all  the  little  ones  since.) 

"  Of  co'se,  'tis  very  nice  for  now"  granted 
the  grandmother,  in  reply  to  Marie's  question, 
"  but  not  like  those  we  had  befo'  the  war, 
no!" 

"Oh— h— h!"  protested  Toinette,  laugh- 
ing mischievously.  "G'an  don't  find  nothing 
nice  that  don't  come  before  the  war.  Any- 
how," she  added,  roguishly,  "I  think  me, 
I  am  nice,  and  I  was  not  here  before  the 
war.  For  what  you  love  Babette  so  much, 
G'an?  She  was  not  here  before  the  war." 


The  grandmother  smiled.  "  You  all  noth- 
ing but  poor  trash  !  I  don't  love  none  of 
you !"  she  responded  fondly,  taking  little 
Babette's  dimpled  face  between  her  own  fat 
palms. 

"  G'an  don't  love  Babette,  no,"  she  added. 
"  Poor  lill  btb/e  !  Mus'  grow  up  an'  be  her 
own  lill  nigger !  Before  the  war,  when  God 
send  gran'ma  one  lill  btbte,  He  always  at  the 
same  time  send  one  lill  nigger  to  wait  on 
him.  Ask  Xante  Angele  !  She  tell  you  !" 

The  black  woman  laughed  softly. 

"  Yas,  'tis  true."  The  tignon  nodded.  "  Wait 
we  come  home,  I  tell  you." 

"  No,  tell  it  now,"  Marie  insists;  and  so  the 
old  woman  begins: 

"  Well  ?    You  want  I  tell  it  now  ? 

"  W'en  yo'  oncle  Adolphe,  come,  in  t'ree 
munt  come  my  boy,  Jean,  an'  den,  w'en  yo' 
aunt  Natalie  is  born,  I  got  de  nex'  day  my 
Sophie — Sophie,  she  stay  wid  yo'  aunt  Natalie 
in  Paris  now — an'  den  come  yo'  aunt  Fifine 
an'  my  Rosa  —  an'  after  R.osa  I  got  Ma- 
thilde,  an'  Mathilde  she  die,  an'  yo'  gran'ma 
she  got — lemme  t'ink,  how  dat  come — oh, 
yas,  yo'  gran'ma  she  got  yd  aunt  Marie,  an' 
den  yo'  oncle  Aristide —  an' dat  same  very 
day  yo'  oncle  l\.nstide  is  born  come  my  two 


black  tween,  Louis  an'  Louise — an'  den  we 
ain't  had  no  mo',  w'ite  nor  black,  for  five 
year,  an'  den  yo'  maman  is  born,  an'  de  nex' 
St.  Joseph  night  my  Cora,  po'  chile —  Now 
Cora,  she  is  gone,  ole  Angele  have  to  start 
again,  play  nurse." 

The  old  woman  had  gone  over  this  same 
record  a  hundred  times  before,  but  she  never 
wearied  of  the  recital. 

"  But,"  she  continued,  tightening  her  arm 
about  the  little  one  next  her,  "  so  long  Tante 
Angele  can  hoi'  out,  all  doze  chillens  got  one 
nigger  anyhow.  But  she  make  'em  min',  yas  ! 
Befo'  de  war  I  used  to  b'longs  to  you  all 
w'ite  folks,  now  you  all  b'longs  to  me.  All 
doze  no  'count  lazy  w'ite  chillens  b'longs  to 
me.  All  but  Babette ;  we  have  to  let  gran'- 
ma  have  dat  las'  li'll  lagniappe  bdbtfe.  Better 
han'  me  dat  cake-bag,  yas.  Lemme  hoi'  it 
— or  pass  it  at  yo'  maman,  so.  Too  much 
dem  cream  pauf  is  bad,  yas." 

During  this  long  recital,  although  the  two 
oldest  children  had  perhaps  paid  small  heed, 
four  pairs  of  eager  black  eyes  were  never 
withdrawn  from  the  speaker's  face.  To  them 
Tante  Angele  was  an  oracle,  capable  of  pro- 
ducing anything  at  will,  from  a  wonder-tale 
laden  with  shivers  and  starts  to  a  lullaby  so 


soft  and  sleepy  that  not  a  child  of  the  six 
had  ever  heard  the  very  end  of  it. 

Though  all  the  babies  had  been  the  grand- 
mother's favorites  in  turn,  Babette,  doubly 
endeared  to  her  as  her  own  namesake  and 
godchild,  and,  too,  by  a  delicate  babyhood 
from  which  she  was  just  emerging,  was  the 
very  apple  of  her  eye. 

The  blue  silk  cord  and  tassels  which  she 
wore  about  her  chubby  waist,  in  token  of 
certain  religious  vows  of  consecration,  were 
the  work  of  the  grandmother's  loving  fingers 
— "the  last  work  for  my  old  eyes  and  hands," 
she  had  said,  as  she  laid  the  silver  knitting- 
needles  away  with  her  discarded  jewels  to 
keep  for  "  'Tite  Babette." 

But  into  this  last  little  love-task  she  had 
interwoven,  with  a  feeling  of  pious  devo- 
tion, dainty  copies  of  special  prayers,  invo- 
cations to  preferred  saints  in  behalf  of  the 
tiny  wearer,  with  her  full  name  and  date  of 
vows  assumed,  printed  on  fine  silk  paper 
doubled  so  as  to  form  the  bodies  of  the  or- 
namental tassels,  which  were  finally  skilfully 
covered  over  and  over  with  a  dainty  silken 
web  of  blue.  This  was  a  secret  which  only 
the  grandmother  and  the  saints  themselves 
were  supposed  to  know,  and  when  she  had 


taken  the  beautiful  finished  work  to  the  old 
French  cathedral  to  have  it  blessed,  accord- 
ing to  custom,  she  felt  that  it  carried  assur- 
ances of  other  blessings  than  even  the  holy 
father  knew. 

As  they  sit  in  line  on  the  crowded  gallery 
to-night  awaiting  the  return  of  the  Mystick 
Krewe,  Babette  sits  next  her  grandmother 
jabbering  as  fast  as  her  lips  can  move,  to 
the  infinite  delight  and  amusement  of  the 
entire  family. 

It  is  the  little  girl's  first  view  of  the  grand 
parade — the  first  night  in  all  her  young  life, 
in  fact,  that  eight  o'clock  has  found  her  out 
of  her  little  lace-canopied  crib.  It  is  nine 
now. 

She  had  begged  to  come — begged,  with  a 
little  quiver  playing  all  around  the  dimples 
in  her  cheeks  while  promising  in  quavering 
voice  to  stay  awake.  And  Tante  Angele — 
Xante  Angele,  who  was  always  on  the  chil- 
dren's side  in  everything — had  plead  for  her, 
even  volunteering  to  carry  her  all  the  way 
home  in  case  she  should  go  to  sleep. 

And  then  the  grandmother  had  decided 
the  matter. 

"  Never  mind.  She  is  coming  with  nenaine. 
You  look  after  your  own  sleepy-heads.  I'll 


take  care  of  my  baby ;  and  if  they  don't  look 
sharp,  she'll  talk  over  the  snoring  heads  of 
Marie  and  Arthe',  and  maybe  three  nine- 
o'clock  babies.  Clothilde,  she  make  friends 
with  the  sand -man  every  night  time  the 
clock  is  on  the  nine  strike — so  look  sharp !" 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  procession 
came  again,  and  the  grandmother's  prophecy 
seemed  likely  to  come  true.  Marie  and  Ar- 
the had  grown  suspiciously  quiet  and  still, 
and  Clothilde,  ten-year-old  Clothilde,  was 
actually  nodding.  Only  three  times,  though, 
the  bobbing  head  went  down  before  a  fresh 
hum  of  voices  lifted  all  sleepy  heads  as  if 
with  a  sudden  shock. 

Then  there  was  a  restless  movement  on  all 
the  galleries — a  cbncerted  bending  forward 
of  bodies  and  inquiring  questions:  "Which 
way?"  "Where?"  " Who  says  so ?"  "Oh, 
pshaw !"  "  Nothing  but  a  crazy  lot  of  smart- 
ies  trying  to  raise  an  excitement." 

But  no  !  A  sudden  hurrying  and  scurry- 
ing, hither  and  thither,  of  the  now  loud-laugh- 
ing and  talking  crowd  afoot ;  now  two  or 
three  mounted  police  slowly,  carefully  clear- 
ing the  way ;  and  now  —  a  blase  of  light  ! 
"Ah-h-h-h!"  "Oh-h-h-h!"  "Ah-h-h-h!"  The 
exclamation  passes  like  a  great  wave  from 


one  gallery  to  another,  until  its  echoes  are 
drowned  by  the  stirring  music  of  the  band. 

The  Krewe  has  come  again.  The  first  float 
passes;  another,  and  yet  another,  and  still  they 
come,  until — what  is  this  ?  Bows,  hand-kisses, 
a  shower  of  candies  —  real  French  bonbons — 
from  the  merry  maskers  of  a  special  car  over 
the  shoulders  and  into  the  laps  of  the  little 
Le  Charmants ! 

They  were  all  wide  enough  awake  now ! 
And  here  they  come  again  ;  and  once  more — 
dragdes,  marsh-mallows,  "kisses,"  crystallized 
figs,  thrown  backward  this  time,  for  the  float 
has  passed,  and  still  they  fall  with  true  aim 
into  the  hats  and  over  the  faces  of  the  now 
merrily  laughing  and  waving  group.  Other 
candies  were  flying  in  other  directions  to 
other  people,  or  to  anybody ;  but  these  came 
by  evident  intention  to  the  little  Creoles. 

Float  followed  float,  and  presently  the  pro- 
cession was  only  a  pillar  of  fire  moving  slow- 
ly out  Canal  Street,  and  soon  even  that  was 
gone ;  and  Mardi-Gras,  the  mad  festival,  ex- 
cepting to  such  as  followed  the  maskers  into 
theatre  and  ballroom,  was  over — over  for  an- 
other year. 

The  Le  Charmant  father,  we  have  noticed, 
was  not  visible  to-night.  Like  many  fathers, 


husbands,  brothers,  and  beaux,  he  was  sud- 
denly "  called  off  on  business  "  on  Mardi-Gras 
evening.  If  they  are  called  to  render  loyal 
service  to  Comus,  is  not  this  the  "  business  " 
of  the  occasion ?  Who  says  they  tell  stories? 
Of  course,  no  one  knows  who  compose  the 
Mystick  Krewe.  This  is  half  its  mystic 
charm.  Qne  may  suspect  things  as  much 
as  he  chooses,  and  even  feel  personally  satis- 
fied that  certain  facts  are  true ;  but  that  is 
not  knowing. 

The  little  Le  Charmants  looked  very  wise 
and  mysterious  this  evening,  when  their 
maman  said,  as  they  sat  waiting  for  the 
crowd  to  disperse :  "  Well,  me,  I  am  sat- 
isfied !" 

"  And  I  know  for  what  you  are  satisfied !" 
exclaimed  'Toinette,  chuckling  and  winking 
slyly. 

"And  me,  too,  I  know !"  added  another ; 
and,  in  a  stage  whisper, "  You  r^ognize  some- 
body  r 

Then  all  the  children  gathered  closer  about 
the  mother  —  there  was  plenty  of  standing- 
room  now  —  begging  her  to  tell  which  one 
was  "  popa." 

"  I  t'ink,  me,  he  was  one  of  doze  apple," 
suggested  Tante  Angele,  aside  to  Marie ; 


"  biccause  it  was  one  apple  what  t'row  doze 
bonbons  /" 

"Mats,  one  grenade"  (pomegranate)  "threw 
more  bonbons  than  the  apple,"  said  wise 
'Toinette ;  "  and,  besides,  I  am  sho' — sho  'twas 
not  the  grenade,  because  popa  is  mo'  littler 
than  that  grenade" 

"You  are  all  wrong!"  The  mother  was 
assorting  bonbons  in  the  palm  of  her  left 
hand,  and  passing  to  each  her  favorite  candy 
— "  You  are  all  wrong !  'Twas  not  one  of 
those  who  threw  bonbons.  You  don't  catch 
your  father  so  easily.  He  thought  he  could 
fool  me.  Mais,  I  know  him  /  Here,  pass 
those  gum-drops  to  Angele,  Marie." 

"  T'ank  you,  ma'am.  You  see  dem  mardi- 
gras  dey  know  po*  ole  Tante  Angele  ain't 
got  no  teet',  an'  dey  put  in  some  sof  gum- 
drop  for  her."  The  old  woman  chuckled 
lightly  as  she  slipped  one  of  the  yielding  con- 
fections between  her  own  lips,  and,  reaching 
along  the  line,  distributed  the  other  three  in 
like  manner  to  the  three  little  ones. 

"  You  know,  always,"  the  mother  was  con- 
tinuing to  explain,  "  when  your  popa  finds 
something  very  droll,  he  always  make  so/'1 
She  rubbed  her  palms  together  and  shook 
her  shoulders — "  II  fait  tonjours  comme  fa." 


13 

The  children  all  recognized  the  imitation. 

"  Well,  when  those  oranges  and  grenades 
and  apples  threw  bonbons,  I  saw  one  fat  lemon 
r-rub  his  hands  like  that,  and  shake  himself 
comme  qa" 

Another  representation  of  the  movement. 
"Ah-h-h!  He  thought  he  was  able  to  fool 
•me.  MaiS)  I  know  him  /" 

Even  the  grandmother  and  Tante  Angele 
joined  delightedly  in  the  children's  glee  over 
the  discovery. 

The  procession  had  represented  "  The 
Five  Senses,"  and  it  was  from  the  fruit-laden 
float  following  in  Ceres'  train  that  the  show- 
er of  candies  had  come. 

The  sense  of  taste  had  been  elaborately 
illustrated  by  a  great  profusion  of  such 
things  as  delight  the  palate. 

While  from  one  float  animated  mushrooms, 
asparagus,  and  common  vegetables  without 
number  bowed  and  waved  to  admiring  mul- 
titudes, another  was  alive  with  reeling  bot- 
tles, staggering  demijohns  and  glasses,  while 
on  a  third  were  gleeful  figs,  waddling  water- 
melons, frisking  cantelopes,  and  a  rollicking 
lot  of  oranges,  lemons,  and  smaller  fruits. 

It  had  been  a  gorgeous  pageant,  but  it  was 
gone.  And  now  for  getting  home. 


The  Le  Charmants  had  ridden  up  to  Canal 
Street  in  the  street  car.  The  family  carriage 
would  not  hold  all.  The  car  came  nearly  to 
the  door.  It  was  so  much  more  jolly  to  go 
out  into  the  crowd.  To  get  from  the  balcony 
to  the  car  now,  however,  was  no  small  mat- 
ter. 

The  gallery  back  of  them  was  quite  desert- 
ed when  they  finally  turned,  a  miniature  pro- 
cession in  themselves,  to  take  their  chances 
with  the  rabble. 

The  mother  takes  the  lead,  and  as  she  hes- 
itates a  moment  in  the  street  door  below,  the 
corner  light  falling  upon  her  reveals  a  face  of 
remarkable  beauty.  She  is  so  pretty  —  so 
bright  and  happy  and  young  —  and  as  fresh 
and  blooming  as  the  two  lovely  daughters, 
who  take  an  arm  on  either  side  while  they 
start  out  three  abreast. 

So  they  lead  the  way,  all  three  calling  out 
in  a  breath  to  the  others  to  keep  together — 
and,  funnily  enough,  by  a  common  impulse 
they  all  say  it  in  French. 

Why  not?  The  most  rigorous  politeness 
would  not  require  one  to  conform  to  the 
speech  of  passers-by. 

The  language  is  catching,  and  in  a  twin- 
kling the  entire  column  are  chattering  like  so 


15 

many  magpies,  excepting  that  the  soft  voices 
and  liquid  syllables  of  the  musical  tongue 
would  put  all  talking  birds  of  the  earth  to 
shame. 

"  We  ought  to  have  waited  longer,"  the 
grandmother  says,  as  the  mother,  slipping  on 
a  bit  of  banana-peel,  embraces  her  neighbors 
promiscuously  a  moment,  and  then,  recov- 
ering herself,  starts  on  laughing. 

The  crowd  seems  really  to  be  growing 
more  dense  again  as  the  galleries  pour  their 
masses  out  front  doors  to  supplant  car  and 
carriage  loads  going  in  all  directions. 

Xante  Angele  has  special  charge  of  little 
Arthe",  whom  she  holds  tightly  aloft  while  she 
whispers  marvel  tales  into  her  ear  to  keep 
her  awake,  or  to  engage  her  in  laughing  at 
the  drowsy  gait  of  the  two  next  older,  who 
she  declares  to  be  walking  in  their  sleep,  and 
who,  indeed,  in  their  constant  denials  of  all 
sleepiness,  are  barely  saved  from  stumbling. 

The  grandmother  insisted  on  keeping  Ba- 
bette's  hand.  And  so  they  go  on. 

Good-humor  is  the  rule  of  the  American 
crowd,  and  the  air  of  the  Southern  carnival 
is  seldom  torn  by  a  harsh  word.  And  so  to- 
night, when  suddenly  a  loud  voice  shouted 
"  Move  back !"  and  the  tall  form  of  a  police- 


16 


man  loomed  up  before  them,  the  surging 
crowd,  gasping  first  as  with  a  single  breath, 
and  shrinking  backward  involuntarily  upon 
itself,  became  in  a  twinkling  a  scene  of 
panic. 

Some  one — a  woman  —  had  fallen  across 
the  curbing,  and  others  were  stumbling  over 
her.  Farther  back  a  dozen  or  more,  jammed 
against  a  show-case,  were  terror-stricken  at 
the  combined  dangers  of  broken  glass  and 
threatened  suffocation. 

A  little  woman,  holding  in  her  arms  a  year- 
old  baby,  threw  it,  in  her  fright,  to  a  tall  man 
several  feet  away,  and  he  held  it  safely  aloft 
while  the  youngster,  apparently  taking  the 
whole  thing  as  a  joke,  roared  with  laughter. 

After  the  first  rush  upward  from  Dauphine 
Street,  increasing  the  peril,  the  curious  sud- 
denly took  fright. 

An  opening  now  appeared  at  the  corner. 

The  victim  of  the  accident,  happily  more 
frightened  than  hurt,  went  off  limping  and 
laughing. 

The  tall  man  with  the  baby,  seeing  over 
the  heads  about  him  that  the  accident  had 
not  been  serious,  called  now  playfully  for 
some  one  to  claim  his  charge. 

The  little  mother,  unable  to  hold  her  own 


in  the  crush,  had  been  pressed  some  distance 
back,  and  it  was  perhaps  a  full  minute  before 
she  could  make  herself  heard. 

The  spirit  of  fun  was  in  the  air.  The  tall 
man  was  as  full  of  it  as  the  rest,  and  seeing 
that  the  mother  had  not  instantly  come  for- 
ward, he  forthwith  began  a  mock  auction. 
"Who  wants  to  buy  a  baby?  How  much 
am  I  offered  for  a  baby  ?  How  much  for  the 
baby,  clothes  and  rattle  thrown  in?  What 
am  I  offered?  Ah-h-h!" — seeing  the  moth- 
er's two  slender  hands  raised  some  distance 
away — "  how  much,  ma'am  ?  A  thousand 
thanks,  you  say?  Ah,  well —  Sold!"  This, 
as  the  youngster,  who  begins  to  whimper  at 
sight  of  his  mother,  is  restored  to  her  grate- 
ful arms. 

But  in  this  din  and  confusion  what  has  be- 
come of  our  merry  Creoles?  Were  they 
standing  with  the  others  around  the  tall  man, 
laughing  at  the  baby  auction?  Surely  they 
were  not  over  in  the  show-window  jam,  or 
— look !  Perhaps  they  are  yonder,  scarce 
twenty  feet  away,  where  people  are  running 
and  some  one  is  calling  for  water. 

Yes,  we  have  found  them. 

The  grandmother,  overcome  from  the  press- 
ure and  lack  of  breathing-space,  has  fainted. 


18 


She  lies  unconscious  in  old  Tante  Angele's 
arms. 

The  children  are  frightened  and  crying. 
Their  mother,  chafing  the  old  lady's  hands, 
begs  the  people  to  move  back,  while  a  stran- 
ger, with  well-meant  brutality,  deluges  the 
sufferer  with  cold  water. 

The  faint  is  not  very  serious.  It  does  not 
last  long.  After  a  few  moments,  moments  of 
much  distress  and  confusion  they  are,  she  is 
able,  with  the  aid  of  a  kind  stranger  who  has 
bribed  a  hack -driver  from  the  door  of  the 
theatre  near,  to  enter  a  carriage  and  start 
home. 

The  mother  follows,  taking  the  eldest  two 
of  the  daughters  with  her  (the  grandmother 
might  be  taken  ill  again,  and  she  would  need 
them),  and  hurriedly  giving  the  driver  her 
address  and  calling  to  Tante  Angele  to  "  bring 
the  children  home,"  she  closes  the  carriage 
door,  and  they  are  gone. 

Poor  old  Tante  Angele !  It  seemed  a  sim- 
ple thing  to  "  bring  the  children  home,"  and 
yet,  suddenly  relieved  of  the  terrible  strain 
which  no  one  had  realized,  she  gazed  about 
her  as  one  dazed. 

The  shawl  about  her  old  shoulders  was 
wet  and  cold,  and  she  shivered.  Perceiving 


19 

it,  little  Marie  took  off  her  own  wrap  and 
would  have  placed  it  around  the  old  woman, 
but  it  was  quickly  replaced  and  securely 
pinned.  But  the  incident  seemed  to  revive 
her  consciousness  of  the  situation,  for  she 
exclaimed,  in  French : 

"  Come,  come !  All  of  you  !  Come  Louis, 
Marie,  Arthe,  Babette  !  Where  is  Babette 
— ou  est  'tite  Babette?" 

The  little  one  was,  indeed,  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  It  had  all  been  so  sudden — the  rush, 
the  grandmother's  fall,  the  panic. 

"  Tell  me—^dites  moi! — where  is  Babette? 
Ou  ma  bdbc'e  f"  she  continued  to  cry  again 
and  again,  staggering  visibly  as  she  peered  in 
all  directions  for  the  missing  child. 

No  one  remembered  seeing  her  since  she 
had  been  toddling  at  her  grandmother's  side. 

No  matter  what  might  happen  afterwards, 
for  the  moment  she  was  lost.  For  the  length 
of  a  block  or  more  in  all  directions  the  way 
was  clear  now. 

The  old  woman  stood  fixed  a  moment, 
then,  crossing  herself,  while  with  moving  lips 
she  held  her  face  heavenward,  she  threw  up 
her  arms  and  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the 
pavement. 


CHAPTER   II 

WHEN  presently  Tante  Angele  groaned  and 
tried  to  raise  herself,  her  first  words  showed 
the  grief  that  came  with  returning  conscious- 
ness. 

"Ah,  pove  piti /"  (poor  little  one),  she 
moaned.  "Et  li  si  joli !  Ou  li?"  (And 
she  so  pretty !  Where  is  she  ?) 

"  Ah,  mo  lasse!"  (I  am  tired),  she  added, 
wearily,  as  with  a  difficult  effort  she  rose  to 
her  feet. 

One  glance  at  theweeping  children  seemed 
to  restore  her  to  full  strength,  however,  and, 
turning  to  the  strangers  who  had  gathered 
about  her,  she  besought  them  to  find  her 
bttte. 

For  a  long  time  the  little  terror-stricken 
group  lingered  at  the  stfeet^corner,  hoping 
against  hope  that  Babette  would  suddenly 
reappear  quite  near  them,  or  that  they  would 
discern  her  little  figure,  lost  only  for  the  mo- 
ment, among  straggling  passers-by. 

Occasionally  a  policeman  would  stop  only 


to  assure  them  "  There  was  no  occasion  for 
alarm.  It  was  foolish  to  cry  and  grieve ; 
children  were  lost  every  day — and  found. 
Much  better  for  the  old  woman  to  take  the 
others  home  than  to  stand  in  her  wet  clothes 
and  take  her  death  of  cold." 

But  to  all  such  suggestions  Tante  Angele 
would  turn  a  deaf  ear.  To  go  and  leave  her 
"  chere  btbfa — maybe  in  a  gutter,  or  all  mash 
under  a  cart-wheel" — that  she  would  never 
do. 

It  was  nearing  midnight  now.  The  clocks 
had  struck  ten  long  before  the  accident,  and 
more  than  an  hour  had  passed  since. 

Finally  the  old  woman  moved  to  go,  and, 
followed  by  a  crowd  of  sobbing  children,  she 
led  the  way,  moaning  softly  as  she  went,  a 
few  steps  beyond  the  next  corner. 

Hesitating  here  a  moment,  as  if  she  had 
not  courage  to  go  on,  she  threw  herself  down 
upon  the  front  steps  of  old  Christ  Church, 
and  wept  unrestrained,  swaying  her  body  to 
and  fro  in  her  great  sorrow. 

Here  her  wails  attracted  the  passers  on 
foot,  who  hesitated,  asked  a  few  questions, 
were  "  sorry,"  "  hadn't  seen  anything  of  her," 
and  passed  on. 

Carriages  rolled  by,  a  brilliant  line,  bring- 


ing  their  rustling  burdens  —  ladies  in  dia- 
monds, silks,  and  laces — to  the  grand  Mystick 
Krewe  ball  in  the  old  Varieties  Theatre  next 
door. 

Little  Arthe  had  gone  to  sleep  on  Marie's 
lap.  The  others  by  turns  wept  and  entreated 
the  old  woman  to  go  home,  but  for  once  in 
her  life  she  seemed  oblivious  to  their  present 
discomfort. 

The  stone  steps  where  they  lay  were  wet 
and  cold,  and  these  tenderly-reared  children 
unused  to  late  hours  and  exposure.  All 
thought  of  the  present,  however,  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  sorrow  that  was  wringing 
her  faithful  old  heart. 

Presently  little  Arthe  coughed  in  her  sleep 
— a  metallic,  croupy  sound.  Rallying  in- 
stantly, Tante  Angele,  hastily  lifting  the 
sleeping  burden  in  her  arms,  and  saying 
only  "  Aliens !"  (let  us  go),  started  towards 
the  Rampart  car. 

Her  old  hands  trembled  so  violently  that 
it  was  with  much  difficulty  that  she  finally 
secured  the  car-fare,  closely  tied  in  a  corner 
of  her  kerchief.  During  the  long  ride  home 
she  sat  silent  —  a  pitiful  wreck  of  the  placid, 
trig,  dignified  figure  who  sat  on  the  gallery 
only  a  few  hours  ago.  Her  tignon,  saturated 


with  water,  lay  limp  and  flabby.  The  watch- 
dog's ears  had  fallen. 

When  at  last  they  left  the  car  she  stag- 
gered visibly,  but  waiting  and  carefully  help- 
ing each  one  out  and  sending  them  ahead, 
she  followed  with  her  heavy  burden.  The 
front  gate  stood  open,  and  the  family  were 
anxious  and  excited  when  the  group  entered. 
The  father  had  come  home  some  minutes 
before,  and,  not  finding  them,  had  hurried 
back  to  make  inquiry.  He  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. A  shout  of  delight  greeted  the  wan- 
derers as  they  entered  the  hall-door,  Tante 
Angele  still  staggering  pitifully  behind. 

Laying  the  sleeping  child  down  upon  the 
hall  lounge,  she  sank  beside  her  upon  the 
floor,  while  a  chorus  of  children's  voices  made 
the  tragic  announcement : 

"  Babette  est  perdu  !" 

"  Babette — perdu  !" 

"  Babette  is  lost !" 

« lost!" 

The  mother,  naturally  turning  to  Angele 
for  explanation,  rushed  forward  with  an  ago- 
nized scream ;  but  when  she  reached  the 
lounge,  she  started  stricken  with  a  new  terror. 

Reclining  as  she  had  fallen  upon  the  floor, 
her  arm  still  under  the  head  of  the  sleeping 


24 

child,  her  own  head  fallen  back  until  it  rested 
on  the  same  pillow,  poor  old  Tante  Angela 
was  at  rest.  For  the  first  time  in  her  long 
service  of  half  a  century  she  had  been  told  to 
"  bring  the  children  home,"  and  she  had  not 
been  able  to  obey.  She  was  too  old  to  rea- 
son about  it — to  hope  with  an  almost  certain- 
ty that  the  little  one  would  be  found — to  re- 
alize that  she  was  blameless.  The  mother, 
in  an  agony  of  fear,  raised  the  dark  arm,  try- 
ing to  rouse  her,  but  there  was  something  in 
the  noble  old  face  that  said  it  was  too  late. 

Tante  Angele  could  not  look  in  her  face 
and  say,  "  Your  child  is  lost."  She  was  at 
rest,  without  sickness  or  pain  or  knowledge 
of  parting — simply  at  rest. 

So,  tenderly  and  painlessly,  does  the  All- 
Father  sometimes  take  old  and  tired  people 
out  of  weariness  and  trouble  when  life  be- 
comes too  sad  and  hard  to  bear. 

And  we  say  they  are  "  dead." 

A  faint  gleam  of  day  was  shining  across 
the  river  when  Colonel  Le  Charmant  drove, 
for  the  third  time,  to  the  door  of  the  police- 
court  opposite  Jackson  Square  to  inquire  for 
tidings  of  his  lost  child. 

He  had  gone  in  haste  to  Canal  Street,  to 


the  corner  where  the  accident  occurred,  where 
the  carriage  had  left  Tante  Angele  and  the 
children,  hoping  for  news  of  them  ;  but  seeing 
no  one,  he  was  turning  away  when  an  apothe- 
cary who  was  answering  his  night-bell  called 
out  to  him,  asking  if  he  had  found  his  child. 
Surprised  to  learn  that  the  father  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  affair,  he  handed  him  a  written  de- 
scription of  the  little  girl,  together  with  her 
name  and  residence.  This  he  had  gotten 
from  the  policeman. 

The  Frenchman's  hand  trembled  as  he  re- 
turned the  paper,  and,  turning  away,  he  has- 
tened to  the  various  police-stations  of  the 
city,  at  several  of  which  he  found  notices 
similar  to  that  of  the  corner  apothecary.  To 
each  he  hastily  added  a  promise  of  reward  to 
her  finder,  and  so  the  remainder  of  the  night 
passed. 

When,  for  the  third  time,  he  stepped  out  of 
the  court  facing  Jackson  Square,  his  heart 
sank.  It  was  the  same  story — no  news.  He 
felt  that  he  must  go  home,  and  yet  he  dreaded 
to  meet  the  family.  There  was  a  bare  pos- 
sibility that  the  child  might  by  this  time  be 
comfortably  sleeping  in  her  own  bed,  and 
yet,  if  her  finder  had  cared  to  restore  her, 
there  had  been  plenty  of  time  before  his  re- 


turn  from  the  ball.  The  apothecary  had  told 
him  that  the  old  nurse  had  gone  home  sor- 
rowing later  than  midnight. 

The  world  generally  has  a  tender  feeling 
for  little  children,  and  a  lost  child  is  almost 
sure  to  find  protecting  arms.  Yet  how  tragic 
a  terror  seizes  us  as  we  think  of  the  possibility 
of  one  of  our  own  little  ones — a  brother  or  a 
sister  —  being  lost  in  a  great  city  at  night. 
The  very  thought  draws  our  hearts  in  sym- 
pathy to  every  member  of  the  Le  Charmant 
household  to-night — not  forgetting  the  little 
child  herself,  who  at  best  must  be  bewildered 
by  strange  scenes  and  faces. 

It  is  not  hard  to  understand  her  father's 
reluctance  to  going  home  without  her,  and 
with  little  hope  of  finding  her  there.  As  he 
stood,  undecided  what  to  do  next,  a  police- 
man just  released  from  his  night  work  crossed 
at  the  corner. 

Calling  him,  and  thrusting  a  coin  into  his 
hands,  Colonel  Le  Charmant  bade  him  go  to 
the  house  and  see  if  there  were  any  news. 
"  You  will  find  me  here  when  you  come 
back,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  open  square. 
The  conversation  was  hurried,  and  in  French. 

With  hands  crossed  behind  him  and  bowed 
head,  he  now  entered  the  square  and  began 


walking  slowly  up  and  down  its  winding 
paths.  Every  few  moments  he  would  stop, 
and  absently  kick  a  tiny  white  shell  from 
the  walk  with  the  toe  of  his  patent-leather 
pumps.  He  had  left  notices  with  all  the  pa- 
pers— notified  the  police.  What  else  could 
he  do?  Where  search  next?  For  the  pres- 
ent there  seemed  nothing  but  to  wait. 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  his  watch.  The 
policeman  could  not  return  for  more  than  a 
half  hour.  He  would  have  time  and  to  spare 
to  step  across  into  the  French  market  and 
take  a  cup  of  early  coffee. 

For  many  years,  art  hour  later  than  this, 
Tante  Angele  had  brought  his  morning  coffee 
to  his  bedside.  A  soft  tap  at  his  door,  a 
noiseless  step  on  the  carpet,  a  freshly-tur- 
baned  head  appearing  under  the  mosquito- 
netting,  and  a  low-voiced  greeting : 

"  B'jou  Mich6  "  (Good-morning,  sir),  had 
been  her  daily  salutation,  never  varying  dur- 
ing all  the  years ;  and  while  "  Miche  "  supped 
his  tiny  cup  of  black  Java  coffee,  she  had 
waited,  tray  in  hand,  while  in  monosyllables 
she  reported  the  state  of  the  weather. 

"  Fait  chaud  ce  matin  "  (It  is  warm  this 
morning) ;  or  "  II  fait  mouiller  "  (It  is  damp). 

So  the  noiseless  step  and  the  silver  tray 


28 


went  from  room  to  room  until,  her  round 
complete,  she  would  toast  her  old  toes  at  the 
nursery-grate  and  peacefully  sip  her  own  cof- 
fee, poured  from  the  same  pot. 

Then,  if  the  weather  and  her  rheumatism 
agreed,  she  would  steal  off  to  mass  in  the 
little  chapel  near ;  or,  if  the  wind  were 
from  the  east,  she  steadied  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  said  her  beads,  and  nodded  until 
it  was  time  to  wake  the  children. 

The  light  of  day  was  gleaming  dimly 
through  its  broad  aisles  when  Colonel  Le 
Charmant  stepped  into  the  market,  and  as 
the  tiny  orange  -  colored  gas-jets  down  the 
aisle  went  out,  one  by  one,  he  started  to  re- 
alize that  another  day  was  really  begun. 

Little  Babette  had  been  lost  for  an  entire 
night. 

As,  his  coffee  finished,  he  turned  away, 
there  were  many  in  all  directions  who  nudged 
one  another,  and,  pointing  to  the  man  in  ball- 
costume,  whispered  mysteriously.  The  news 
of  a  lost  child  travels  fast. 

When  he  returned  to  the  square  he  found 
the  policeman  waiting.  A  single  glance  at 
the  man's  face  answered  the  question  that 
arose  to  the  father's  lips. 

There  was  no  news  of  the  missing  Babette. 


The  more  alarming  the  real  situation,  the 
more  need  of  courage,  the  greater  his  resolve 
to  treat  it  lightly.  He  must  go  home  and 
help  his  family  to  look  at  the  matter  "  sensi- 
bly," while  they  waited  for  the  good  news 
the  day  must  surely  bring. 

The  notices  in  all  the  papers  would  find 
their  way  into  homes  in  even  the  most  re- 
mote precincts.  Surely  a  few  hours  more  of 
anxiety  at  most  would  end  the  terrible  strain, 
and  then  there  would  be  a  good  laugh.  If 
poor  people  brought  her,  they  should  be  well 
rewarded  ;  if  her  rescuer  were  rich,  he  should 
be  royally  treated.  No  man  who  served  a 
Le  Charmant  was  ever  forgotten. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  house,  it  was  crowd- 
ed with  the  extensive  family  connection.  A 
servant  had  run  with  the  news  to  one  house 
the  night  before,  and  by  morning  a  host  of 
uncles,  aunts,  and  cousins — cousins  to  the 
third  and  fourth  degree — overflowed  broad 
galleries  and  steps. 

The  news  of  Tante  Angele's  tragic  death 
had  not  reached  the  distressed  man,  and  as, 
on  entering,  he  caught  sight,  through  the  nurs- 
ery door  ajar,  of  the  familiar  symbols  of 
death — the  lace-covered  bier  and  burning  can- 
dles— he  rushed  into  the  room,  crying,  "  My 


3Q 

child  is  dead  !"  But  when  he  saw  the  placid 
countenance  of  the  faithful  old  nurse  and 
learned  the  pathetic  story,  he  turned  away 
with  bowed  head — silent. 

This  tragedy  seemed  to  lend  a  horrible  re- 
ality to  the  other  sorrow,  and  he  found  it 
hard  to  speak  the  words  of  courage  and 
cheer  which  he  had  intended  to  bring. 

The  day  passed — another  and  another — a 
week  —  a  month  —  and  still  no  news  came. 
The  rewards  offered  through  the  daily  pa- 
pers grew  with  each  insertion,  until  a  fair 
fortune  lay  at  the  demand  of  him  who  should 
bring  home  the  lost  Babette. 

And  yet  there  was  no  clew.  Manifestly 
she  had  been  stolen.  Dreadful  words  !  and 
still  what  else  could  be  the  truth  ? 

Once  a  tiny  blue  slipper  was  found  on  the 
wharf  whence  a  French  ship  had  just  sailed. 
It  corresponded  nearly  in  description  with 
those  the  lost  child  had  worn.  Who  could 
say  that  it  was  not  hers  ? 

It  was  sent  to  the  Le  Charmant  home, 
compared  with  all  the  little  shoes  the  child 
had  worn — shoes  wet  with  loving  tears,  of 
which  even  the  stray  blue  slipper  had  a  gen- 
erous share — and  put  aside  as  being  a  doubt- 
ful and  uncertain  witness. 


31 

Still,  cable  despatches  of  inquiry  greeted 
the  vessel  on  landing  on  the  other  side,  but 
without  result.  The  grandmother  grieved  in 
silence,  and  never  left  her  room.  The  moth- 
er walked  her  floor  with  sorrow  and  tears, 
and  in  the  smiling  faces  of  the  children  at 
home  seemed  to  see  only  reminders  of  the 
lost.  Sorrow  now  wrote,  with  indelible  pen- 
cil, deep  lines  for  all  the  years  time  had  for- 
gotten to  record.  She  grew  restless  and  ner- 
vous. When  it  rained,  she  sat  within  her 
window  and  wept,  fearing  her  clttrie  might 
be  somewhere  out  in  the  wet. 

If  the  sun  shone  warm  and  bright,  maybe 
the  dear  child  was  taking  a  fever.  A  sud- 
denly-slammed door  made  her  start,  and 
soon  silver  strands  began  to  glisten  among 
the  dark,  wavy  locks  upon  her  temples. 

A  terrible  dark  cloud  had  settled  over  the 
Le  Charmant  home.  Let  us  hope  it  had  a 
silver  lining,  and  that  we  may  soon  get  a 
glimpse  of  its  bright  side. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  YEAR  passed.  And  now,  out  of  one  dark 
cloud  another  began  to  emerge. 

The  blooming,  handsome  mother  of  twelve 
months  ago  had  grown  pale-faced,  sad,  and 
silent.  The  doctor  advised  a  change  of  scene. 

"  Go  across  the  lake  for  a  while,"  he  said ; 
"  breathe  the  fresh  salt-sea  air,  and  get  back 
the  roses  into  your  cheeks." 

But  at  the  bare  mention  of  the  lake  she 
shuddered.  Everything  there  in  her  summer 
home  would  remind  her  of  the  lost  child — 
every  breeze  from  the  sea  awaken  recollec- 
tions of  the  last  season  spent  there  with  the 
delicate  baby — the  lost  Babette. 

The  old  doctor,  during  all  her  life  a  per- 
sonal friend  as  well  as  family  physician,  took 
Colonel  Le  Charmant  aside  and  advised  him. 

"  We  have  remedies  for  nearly  all  human 
ills,"  he  said,  sadly,  "but  your  wife's  com- 
plaint is  not  named  in  our  books.  She  has 
a  broken  heart.  If  she  remains  at  home, 
growing  paler  as  the  weeks  go  by,  I  cannot 


33 


answer  for  the  result.  Take  her  away. 
Cross  the  ocean.  Don't  say  you  can't  go. 
She  must  go.  She  will  not  go  without  you. 
You  must  make  a  business  trip.  She  will  fol- 
low you.  It  is  the  business  of  your  life — and 
mine — to  get  her  well.  I  order  you  to  go." 

And  so  —  all  in  a  three-minute  talk,  with- 
out previous  thought  or  arrangement — it 
was  decided  that  the  Le  Charmant  family 
would  go  to  France.  The  very  thought  of 
preparing  for  so  great  a  change  drew  the  sad 
woman  somewhat  out  of  her  grief;  and  as  she 
began  to  go  about,  arranging  household  mat- 
ters, deciding  and  directing  all  the  detail  of 
packing,  the  children  were  delighted  and  said, 
"  Hainan  is  getting  well." 

The  handsome  residence  at  Pass  Christian 
was  sold.  The  city  home  would  be  closed 
and  left  in  care  of  a  trusty  negro  servant. 

The  kind-faced  little  French  priest,  old 
Father  Philippe,  came  often  in  these  troub- 
lous days,  offering  Christian  consolation  and 
advice,  and  promising  to  keep  eyes  and  ears 
constantly  and  watchfully  open  for  news. 

"The  good  God  knows  best,"  he  would 
say.  "  Perhaps  He  is  trying  your  faith,  and 
when  you  can  say,  '  His  will  be  done' — who 
knows  ? — you  may  have  your  little  one  again." 


34 

But  the  time  had  not  yet  come  when  the 
broken  -  hearted  mother  could  bow  in  sub- 
mission to  this  great  sorrow.  After  a  month 
of  preparation — a  month  into  which  so  many 
things  were  crowded  that  it  seemed  scarcely 
a  week  — the  day  of  sailing  came.  The  chil- 
dren had  all  paid  a  last  visit  to  Tante  Angele's 
grave  in  the  old  St.  Louis  cemetery,  leav- 
ing tributes  of  love  in  fresh  flowers  and  a 
beaded  wreath  of  elaborate  design.  "  The 
flowers  will  soon  fade,"  they  said,  "  but  the 
wreath  will  keep  till  we  come  back." 

They  would  remain  abroad  about  a  year, 
so  the  father  said.  But  a  year  is  long  and 
brings  many  changes — and  France  is  far 
away.  It  was  in  June,  that  heavenly  month 
of  perfect  days,  that  they  sailed.  Even  the 
sea  seemed  in  sympathy  with  the  gentle  spirit 
of  the  low-lying  peaceful  shore  on  the  fair 
day  when  they  rode  through  the  shallow 
mouth  of  the  great  river  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  deep  waters. 

As  the  mother  sat,  sad  and  silent,  upon  deck, 
gazing  with  tear-filled  eyes  at  the  receding 
shore  until  it  seemed  only  a  low  cloud,  then 
a  line  of  gray  mist,  ere  it  melted  quite  away 
into  blank  space,  her  heart  was  filled  with 
sad  misgivings.  Was  she  moving  farther 


35 


from  her  lost  child  with  each  breath  of  the 
panting  ship,  or  might  she  hope  to  meet  her 
in  the  distant  land  to  which  she  was  going? 

While  the  vessel  sails  away  under  fair  June 
skies,  the  mocking-bird,  unconscious  of  the 
sorrow  that  has  closed  its  doors,  sings  his 
merriest  song  in  the  orange-tree  at  the  Le 
Charmant  home,  and  bright  butterflies  flit 
over  the  flowers  on  Tante  Angele's  grave  and 
light  upon  the  beaded  wreath  that  sways 
easily  in  the  sunny  breeze. 

But  little  Babette !    Where  is  she  ? 

Did  any  one  notice  a  tall  dark  figure, 
Wrapped  in  a  heavy  gray  shawl,  following 
close  behind  the  Le  Charmants  on  Mardi- 
Gras  night  ?  Surely  not.  Who  in  this  merry 
festival  would  think  of  watching  a  quiet  old 
woman  in  a  gray  shawl  ? 

Over  on  the  beach  beyond  Lake  Borgne, 
hence  "  across  the  lake  "  from  New  Orleans, 
less  than  a  hundred  miles  distant  as  the  crow 
flies,  on  the  north  shore  of  Mississippi  Sound, 
shown  by  tiny  dots  on  the  maps  and  some 
not  represented  at  all,  are  the  little  summer 
towns  that  for  many  years  have  been  the 
season's  resorts  for  thousands  of  New  Or- 
leans people. 


But  a  few  years  ago  the  only  approach  to 
these  sea-shore  villages  was  by  boat,  going 
two  or  three  times  a  week  until  the  midsum- 
mer travel  demanded  a  daily  trip.  Now  a 
railroad,  taking  them  all  in  on  its  way  to  Mo- 
bile and  beyond,  has  lifted  all  these  summer 
towns,  as  well  as  the  dense  woodlands  be- 
tween them,  from  obscurity  into  the  world. 

Conspicuous  among  the  winter  residents 
scattered  along  this  coast  are  the  Italian  fish- 
ermen, who  try  to  save  enough  money  from 
their  summer  trade  to  support  their  families 
in  poverty  and  idleness  during  the  cold  sea- 
son. The  more  enterprising  enter  the  winter 
fish  and  oyster  trade  with  New  Orleans,  but 
many  prefer  to  lounge  about  their  huts,  draw- 
ing the  seine  often  enough  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door,  and  spending  more  of  the  sum- 
mer's earnings  for  tobacco  or  poor  whiskey 
than  for  bread,  and  more  for  garlic  and  red- 
pepper  than  for  butter. 

Hidden,  whether  by  intention  or  accident, 
in  one  of  the  most  wretched  of  these  sea- 
shore dwellings,  removed  by  a  closely-wooded 
beach  of  several  miles  from  any  other  human 
habitation,  lived  in  squalid  poverty  the  mis- 
erable family  of  the  Italian,  Nicholas  Nicho- 
las. In  a  dense  clump  of  oaks,  somewhat 


•DID  ANY  ONE    NOTICE    A   TALL    FIGURE    WRAPPED   IN    A    HEAVY 
GRAY   SHAWL?" 


37 

back  from  the  shore -line,  his  low-shedded 
shanty  sat  flat  upon  the  ground  like  a  sitting 
hen  with  extended  wings. 

This  miserable  hovel,  for  his  family's  sake, 
we  shall  call  a  house.  It  would  seem  a  dese- 
cration of  that  holier  word  to  call  it  a  home. 
And  yet  it  was  all  of  home  that  its  occu- 
pants had  known  for  years — all  that  the  nu- 
merous brood  of  children  who  had  first  be- 
held the  light  of  day  through  its  two  doors 
had  ever  known. 

Nick's  wife  had  once  asked  to  have  a  win- 
dow, so  that  when  the  weather  was  cold  she 
could  see  to  mend  the  fish-nets  or  to  string 
pepper-pods;  but  Nick  had  only  sworn  and 
muttered  something  about  "  forgetting  her 
raising,"  which  cruel  speech  silenced  her. 

The  meaning  of  his  unkind  reply  we  shall 
soon  see.  The  window  was  never  made. 

But  when  our  story  takes  us  to  this  poor 
little  dwelling,  the  question  of  doors  and  win- 
dows is  a  small  matter;  for  in  June  who 
would  stay  within  doors  on  the  shore  of  a 
Southern  sea  ? 

The  net  stretched  out  to  dry  in  front  of 
the  cabin  shakes  in  the  gentle  breeze,  and  the 
green  of  the  pines  along  the  beach  is  fresh 
and  tender.  A  black-eyed  baby,  crawling  off 


the  heavy  gray  shawl  spread  for  him  upon 
the  beach,  rolls  over  and  over  in  the  warm 
sand,  crowing  with  glee,  while  a  group  of 
older  children  raise  their  short  skirts  and 
wade  knee-deep  in  the  salt  surf. 

Another  child,  similarly  clad,  brown  and 
handsome  like  the  others,  and  yet  with  a  dif- 
ference—  they  are  all  beautiful  — sits  apart 
from  the  others,  and  gazes  with  thoughtful 
eyes  out  towards  the  sea.  A  bit  of  an  old 
shingle  lying  at  her  side  beside  a  deep  hole 
in  the  sand  shows  that  she  has  been  playing 
in  child-fashion,  digging  wells  one  minute  to 
fill  them  the  next 

If  the  wind  soughing  in  the  pines  sings  a 
sad  story  to-day,  and  its  plaint  is  all  in  a  mi- 
nor strain,  it  has  not  found  its  key-note  in 
earth  or  sea  or  sky,  for  it  is  one  of  June's 
matchless  days.  It  is  the  day  on  which  the 
Le  Charmants  are  setting  sail  for  Europe. 

We  can  almost  fancy  that  the  sea- wind 
gathers  its  notes  from  the  heart  of  the  sor- 
rowing mother  who  sits  gazing  wistfully  over 
the  vessel's  side,  and  wafts  the  sad  chords 
into  the  forest;  while  the  towering  pines 
above  her  head  catch  and  translate  into 
sound  the  wistful  look  in  the  deep  dark  eyes 
of  the  beautiful  child  who  sits  apart  from  the 


39 


others  silently  watching  the  sea.  This  is  but 
a  fancy,  and  yet,  following  it,  we  may  imag- 
ine that  it  is  the  meeting  within  the  forest 
of  these  two  answering  strains  that  produces 
the  sad  but  harmonious  wail  that  charms  the 
ear  of  the  little  child  who  only  knows  that 
she  loves  to  sit  and  listen. 

Need  we  say  that  this  little  one  is  Babette  ? 
If  her  people,  straining  their  eyes  from  the 
departing  vessel,  could  see  her  to-day,  they 
would  not  know  her.  Dressed  in  a  shrunken 
gown  of  checkered  flannel,  a  red  cotton  ker- 
chief tied  loosely  about  her  neck,  with  her 
chubby  feet  brown  and  bare,  she  looks  a  veri- 
table little  "  dago,"  like  the  rest  of  the  juve- 
nile members  of  the  household  of  Nicholas 
Nicholas. 

The  sea-wind  has  browned  and  summer's 
sun  tanned  her,  and  while  brightening  and 
deepening  her  color,  they  have  brought  her 
golden  gifts.  Vigorous  health,  such  as  the 
loving,  watchful  care  of  mother  and  home 
had  not  been  able  to  bestow,  has  come  to 
her  in  full  measure — the  threefold  gift  of  the 
sun,  the  balmy  air,  and  the  salt  sea-waters. 

Besides  the  family  whom  we  have  men- 
tioned— father,  mother,  and  children — there 
were  two  other  occupants  of  this  cottage  by 


the  sea.  One  we  recognize  at  a  glance  as 
the  old  woman  who  followed  the  Le  Char- 
mants  on  Mardi-Gras  night  sixteen  months 
ago.  The  other  was — shall  we  say  an  old 
or  a  young  man  ?  It  was  hard  to  tell ;  al- 
most as  difficult  as  it  was  to  say  whether  he 
was  what  is  commonly  called  black  or  white. 
As  a  matter  of  color,  though  a  pure  Cau- 
casian, he  was  not  white,  nor  was  he  black, 
or  yet  brown,  but  rather  of  a  leathern  hue, 
with  dark  blotches  over  neck,  hands,  and 
face. 

Two  other  facts  regarding  him  are  appar- 
ent, however.  He  is  a  mute ;  this  he  be- 
trays by  mysterious  motions  of  his  hands  as 
he  ties  the  boat  up  to  the  wharf  under  Nick's 
direction.  Another  fact  which  we  soon  dis- 
cover is  that  he  is  mentally  weak.  "  A  fool- 
ish," Nicholas  would  say,  indicating,  by  a  tap 
upon  his  own  forehead,  the  seat  of  Noute's 
trouble. 

Who  this  man  was,  how  he  had  gotten 
there,  what  was  his  real  name,  and  how  he 
had  acquired  it,  were  questions  that  no  one 
ever  answered.  If  Noute  himself  knew,  he 
could  not  tell.  A  few  things  he  did  know, 
and  the  thing  he  knew  best  was  to  obey. 

Excepting  for  an  occasional  obstinate  fit, 


which  the  sinister  old  grandmother  said  came 
upon  him  at  the  change  of  the  moon,  Noute 
was  uniformly  docile.  And  he  was  strong  of 
arm,  and  could  row  or  sail  a  boat,  or  draw  a 
heavy  seine. 

He  did  not  mind  being  cursed  or  abused, 
for  curses  and  blessings  were  all  the  same  to 
his  unconscious  ears ;  and  as  for  being  kicked 
when  Nick  was  out  of  temper — or  out  of 
whiskey,  which  amounted  to  the  same  thing 
— well,  he  was  slowly  learning  to  keep  out 
of  harm's  way.  Even  if  he  did  get  an  occa- 
sional blow  from  Nick's  boot,  what  was  the 
difference  ? 

We  all  have  our  missions.  Perhaps  Noute, 
"  the  foolish,"  thought  his  mission  in  life  was 
to  be  kicked.  At  any  rate,  he  accepted  his 
fate.  It  will  readily  be  seen  that  Noute  was 
a  most  useful  member  of  the  family  of  Nich- 
olas Nicholas. 

He  could  chop  more  wood  within  a  given 
time  than  any  other  member  of  the  house- 
hold, and  he  was  a  cheap  boarder,  taking  his 
chances  with  the  rest  for  daily  bread,  himself 
keeping  up  the  supply  of  fish  as  well  as  fuel ; 
and,  besides,  he  was  safe — he  could  tell  no  se- 
crets! 

Noute's  one  extravagance  was  tobacco,  for 


which,  if  he  were  pressed,  he  would  barter 
the  clothes  off  his  back.  His  appearance, 
however,  was  an  obstacle  to  extensive  trade, 
as  nearly  all  the  people  along  the  beach  were 
afraid  of  him.  Added  to  the  startling  effect 
of  his  blotched  visage,  which  was  made  more 
grotesque  by  a  pair  of  large  ears  set  high  up 
on  his  head,  there  was  about  him  that  most 
painful  of  characteristics,  an  absence  of  in- 
tellect. 

His  pale  blue  eyes,  twinkling  in  a  perpet- 
ual smile  beneath  a  low -roofed  forehead, 
were  more  apt  to  repel  than  to  attract. 
Strange  children,  who  looked  at  him  shyly 
askance  at  first,  would  run  screaming  away 
when  he  began  to  gesticulate.  The  fisher- 
men's wives  along-shore  regarded  him  with  a 
sort  of  superstitious  horror,  and  would  turn 
their  faces  away  and  cross  themselves  if  he 
passed  before  them. 

Some  said  that  he  talked  to  the  devil,  and 
with  the  uncanny  movements  of  his  hands 
was  working  strange  spells ;  while  others, 
pointing  to  his  spots,  whispered  of  leprosy. 

Indeed,  the  report  that  poor  simple  Noute 
was  a  leper  gained  such  currency  that  even 
those  who  doubted  it  feared  that  it  might  be 
true,  and  kept  a  safe  distance;  so  that  we 


43 

may  easily  see  that  the  family  of  Nicholas 
Nicholas  was  practically  quarantined. 

It  is  hard  to  understand  how  little  Babette 
Le  Charmant,  the  petted  child  of  refined  and 
wealthy  people,  could  have  come  into  this 
miserable  and  most  unfortunate  family. 

The  true  story,  which  will  explain  how  and 
why  the  poor  old  grandmother  followed  our 
Creole  friends  on  that  memorable  Mardi-Gras 
night,  and  will  relate  all  the  incidents  that 
led  to  the  terrible  deed  that  brought  so  much 
sorrow  in  its  train,  will  have  to  form  a  chap- 
ter all  to  itself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  pedigree  of  Nick's  family  was  some- 
what unusual.  About  twenty -five  years  be- 
fore this  story  begins  a  certain  camp  of  wan- 
dering gypsies  had  spent  a  summer  on  this 
coast. 

Noted  for  her  beauty  then  as  for  her  ugli- 
ness now  (for  it  is  the  present  grandmother 
of  the  Nicholas  household  whom  we  are  de- 
scribing) was  a  bonny  gypsy  maiden  of  this 
encampment,  and  many  visitors  came  from 
Pass  Christian,  Bay  St.  Louis,  Biloxi,  Mis- 
sissippi City,  and  even  from  New  Orleans, 
ostensibly  to  have  their  fortunes  told,  but 
really  to  see  the  beautiful  gypsy  girl. 

Of  course  she  had  many  lovers  among  the 
humble  shore- folk,  and  it  was  not  strange 
that  she  should  have  chosen  for  her  husband 
a  handsome  trifling  son  of  a  Sicilian  fisher- 
man. 

The  groom  attached  himself  for  a  time  to 
the  wandering  gypsies,  but  finally  he  and  his 
Arabian  wife  drifted  back  to  his  father's  roof, 


45 


bringing  with  them  a  little  dark-eyed  daugh- 
ter— the  present  Mrs.  Nicholas. 

We  now  begin  to  see  why  the  little  wom- 
an was  silenced  by  her  husband's  reference 
to  her  "  raising,"  as  a  childhood  spent  in  a 
gypsy  camp  supplied  no  memories  of  such 
luxuries  as  glass  windows. 

She  had  risen  in  the  social  scale  to  the 
point  of  familiarity  with  hinged  doors  and 
plastered  walls  only  through  the  light  of 
"  dago  "  civilization. 

To  go  back  once  more:  The  old  gypsy's 
husband  had  died  while  his  daughter  was  yet 
an  infant ;  and  while  his  people  wanted  his 
child,  they  declared  that  her  mother,  a  "gyp- 
sy tramp,"  was  none  of  theirs.  She  must 
provide  for  herself.  And  so  continuing,  for 
her  child's  sake,  to  live  with  her  husband's 
people,  she  contrived,  by  various  little  indus- 
tries, to  contribute  to  the  family  support. 
Sometimes,  in  those  old  days,  carrying  a 
basket  dago  fashion,  she  had  peddled  fish 
or  crabs,  or  such  game  as  she  could  secure 
from  the  wood,  going  from  house  to  house ; 
while  at  other  times,  after  the  manner  of  gyp- 
sies, she  had  turned  an  honest  (?)  penny  at 
fortune-telling.  Indeed,  often  the  two  indus- 
tries were  combined. 


So  summers  went  by  and  winters  passed 
until  the  gypsy -dago  daughter  was  grown 
and  married. 

The  groom  was  as  handsome  as  her  own 
young  husband  had  been,  and  of  the  same 
people ;  and  if  the  gypsy  mother  had  her  mis- 
givings about  young  Nicholas  Nicholas  as  a 
suitable  husband  for  her  daughter,  she  was 
too  discreet  to  express  them. 

Her  husband's  family  approved  the  match. 
Was  he  not  a  cousin's  cousin  from  the  same 
loved  Palermo  whence  all  their  people  had 
come?  That  settled  the  matter,  and  they 
were  married. 

Nick  may  have  been  an  attractive  lover, 
but  as  a  husband  and  father  we  have  seen 
that  he  proved  a  failure. 

After  a  few  years  of  poor  effort  he  seemed 
to  give  up  all  ambition  to  care  for  his  family, 
and  at  the  end  of  ten  years  we  find  them 
hiding  their  misery  from  the  world  in  the 
deserted  remains  of  an  old  hunter's  cabin, 
where  we  first  saw  them. 

But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  our  little 
Creole  heroine,  Babette  ? 

We  shall  soon  see. 

When  the  trade  of  the  summers  began  to 
slip  away  from  Nick  into  the  hands  of  soberer 


47 


competitors ;  when  the  winters  began  to 
bring  suffering  in  addition  to  the  usual  priva- 
tions— it  became  evident  some  one  else  must 
help  to  keep  the  family  pot  boiling — a  literal 
necessity  in  this  case.  The  mother,  with  al- 
ways a  babe  at  her  knee  and  another  in  her 
arms,  could  do  nothing  to  add  to  the  store- 
house ;  and  so  the  old  grandmother  must 
start  out  again  as  bread-winner.  The  old 
woman  began  to  lay  plans. 

It  was  too  far  to  walk  from  their  isolated 
hut  to  the  towns  along-shore  carrying  bas- 
kets after  the  old  fashion.  If  she  should  take 
Noute  with  her,  his  presence  would  not  in- 
vite trade.  Besides,  there  was  little  chance 
*  to  pick  up  an  odd  penny  along-shore  during 
the  winter  season,  unless,  indeed,  she  could 
visit  several  small  winter  hotels  and  boarding- 
houses  of  which  she  knew.  If  only  she  and 
Noute  could  patch  up  the  old  sail-boat — why 
not?  —  they  could  tie  up  at  the  pier -heads 
at  Mississippi  City  or  the  Pass,  and  peddle 
fish  and  crabs.  She  might  even  try  her  hand 
again  at  her  old  craft  of  fortune-telling. 

It  was  done,  and  the  basket  that  carried 
soft-crabs,  a  string  of  flounders  or  sheepshead, 
brought  back  corn-meal  and  coffee  and  flour. 

So  passed  a  winter  and  a  summer;  but  it 


was  slow  living  and  hard  work,  and  the  re- 
turn of  frost  brought  more  pinching  pov- 
erty. 

The  old  grandmother  fell  to  pondering 
again.  Something  else  must  be  done.  Why 
could  they  not  draw  the  seine  on  regular 
days,  and  try  making  weekly  trips  to  the  city 
— to  New  Orleans  ?  It  seemed  a  rash  under- 
taking, and  yet  boats  were  going  every  day — 
and  there  was  pressing  need. 

While  Noute  was  not  party  to  the  plan,  he 
could  obey  the  old  woman's  motions.  They 
drew  the  seine  the  next  day — and  the  next — 
and,  on  Friday  following,  the  little  craft  made 
her  first  voyage  to  the  great  city.  This  was 
done  by  following  in  the  wake  of  other  boats 
at  first;  but  Noute  soon  learned  the  way,  and 
after  two  or  three  trips  the  little  boat  took 
an  independent  course,  and  the  weekly  sail 
was  an  established  fact. 

Sometimes  the  little  cargo — which  the  old 
woman  peddled  at  the  big  houses  in  the 
French  quarter,  where  she  soon  had  her  reg- 
ular Friday  customers — would  bring  unusual 
profit,  and  besides  the  baskets  of  groceries 
would  come  warm  stockings  for  the  children 
or  a  new  gown  for  the  mother;  even  misera- 
ble, unworthy  Nick  was  not  forgotten.  Noute 


49 


took  his  dividends  in  an  extra  share  of  to- 
bacco. 

All  went  well  for  a  time,  but  troubles  came 
again.  There  was  jealousy  among  the  regu- 
lar fishermen,  and  the  old  gypsy's  ears  caught 
whispers  of  "  selling  without  a  license,"  and 
even  that  startling  word  "  arrest."  She  re- 
turned from  this  trip  with  a  sad  heart  —  al- 
most discouraged.  She  could  not  pay  for 
the  required  license  out  of  her  meagre  earn- 
ings. She  feared  to  appear  again  in  the 
streets  of  New  Orleans  without  it. 

The  next  week  the  little  boat  made  no 
voyage,  but  sat  upon  the  water  tied  up 
against  the  wharf,  her  brave  little  sails  folded, 
and  her  oars  crossed  like  hands  at  rest  in  her 
lap,  awaiting  orders  from  the  silent  crew. 
But  no  word  came  this  week  or  the  next. 

During  this  time  the  old  woman  was  pre- 
occupied and  silent,  while  Noute  kept  his 
blinking  eyes  fixed  anxiously  upon  her,  hop- 
ing for  instructions. 

Nick,  the  father,  seldom  interfered  with 
any  of  the  family  plans  now,  not  even  swear- 
ing at  Noute,  so  long  as  he  could  keep  com- 
fortably drunk,  which,  somehow,  he  managed 
to  do.  He  was  a  good  sailor  and  knew  the 
coast,  and  the  fishermen  along-shore  some- 


times  took  him  cruising  to  Chandeleur  Isl- 
ands, when,  sobering  him,  they  would  make 
use  of  him,  and,  setting  him  on  his  feet  at 
the  end  of  his  service,  send  him  home  with 
money  enough  to  keep  him  in  whiskey  for  a 
month  or  so. 

Of  Nick's  family  they  knew  little  beyond 
the  fact  that  there  were  a  flock  of  little  ones 
to  be  cared  for,  and  that  they  were  miserably 
poor.  Mrs.  Nicholas  never  left  her  home, 
summer  or  winter.  It  was  a  charity  to  give 
Nick  an  occasional  job,  even  if  its  proceeds 
went  for  drink.  This  was  not  so  bad  as 
trading  away  the  family  provisions,  as  he  had 
been  known  to  do. 

Now  the  last  half  of  their  last  strip  of  ba- 
con hung  on  its  smoky  twine  against  the 
wall  in  Nick's  shanty,  and  if  he  neither  knew 
nor  cared  that  the  macaroni-box  was  empty 
and  the  flour  getting  low  in  the  sack,  the 
grandmother  did  know  and  must  care ;  and 
the  plan  for  relief,  which  crept  into  her  old 
head  timorously  at  first  —  as  a  thing  too 
shameful  to  be  entertained  even  by  this  poor 
gypsy  —  gradually  took  root  and  strength- 
ened. 

Even  in  her  early  days,  before  the  light  of 
dago  morals  had  illumined  her  poor  life,  the 


worst  she  had  done  was  to  gather  in  dimes  at 
front  doors  for  telling  to  mistresses  the  family 
secrets  she  had  gleaned  in  their  kitchens. 

The  plan  which  came  to  her  now  was  so 
hideous  that  she  started  from  her  pallet  in 
the  lonely  shed-room  as  it  dared  to  come  and 
tempt  her.  But  when  the  morning  brought 
new  suffering,  and  the  knife  approached  near- 
er the  bacon's  string,  it  came  again. 

Among  her  richest  customers  of  the  French 
quarter  she  had  recognized  one  of  the  wealthy 
summer  families  of  Pass  Christian.  They 
were  "  such  a  so  rich  peoples !"  So  the  ser- 
vants had  said,  rolling  their  eyes  until  the 
color  was  quite  out  of  sight  to  express  the 
limitless  wealth  which  words  could  not  con- 
vey. 

They  so  rich — and  she  so  poor.  If  she  could 
only — 

No  wonder  she  shuddered  at  the  terrible 
thought.  If  she  could  only  steal  one  of  the 
rich  mails  children  !  He  would  pay  a  big 
reward  for  her  restoration.  Money  would 
come  in  at  the  door  and  poverty  fly  out — up 
the  chimney — in  smoke.  They  would  have 
warm  clothing  and  flour — white,  sweet  wheat 
flour — and  butter,  such  as  she  had  tasted  on 
scraps  from  the  rich  man's  table. 


Did  she  tell  her  plan  ?  Not  even  to  the 
moon  that  looked  in  upon  her  wrinkled  face 
through  the  broken  roof  that  had  spoiled  the 
gypsy's  daughter,  and  made  her  "  forget  her 
raising." 

Noute  danced  with  glee  when  the  welcome 
motions  told  him  to  prepare  for  a  trip  to  the 
city.  He  loved  his  sailor's  life.  It  had  brought 
him  more  wealth  than  he  had  ever  known — 
more  food,  more  tobacco.  And  as  for  clothes 
— he  almost  needed  a  trunk. 

Noute  was  not  mercenary,  but  he  was  hu- 
man enough  to  feel  the  pleasure  that  comes 
to  him  who  achieves  any  worthy  success. 
Besides,  his  new  life  had  added  to  his  per- 
sonal dignity,  making  of  him  several  things 
which  he  had  not  been  before ;  for  was  he 
not  captain  and  all  the  crew  combined  of  an 
independent  tramp  sailing-vessel  ?  Was  he 
not  a  well-fed  and  well-dressed  gentleman  ? 

If  he  was  not,  he  thought  he  was,  and  com- 
paring his  old  self,  who  had  caught  cold 
through  the  rents  in  Nick's  cast-off  trousers, 
with  the  new  dignitary  who  rode  the  sea  like 
a  "  captain  of  the  line,"  he  was  indeed  a 
man  of  consequence. 

If  the  solitary  passenger  was  nervous  and 
depressed,  the  captain  was  jubilant  enough 


53 


when,  hoisting  sail,  they  set  out  on  their  mo- 
mentous voyage. 

As  the  little  boat  tripped  gleefully  over 
the  water,  and  Noute  sat  grinning  proudly 
in  happy  possession  of  honors  restored,  the 
wrinkled  old  woman,  turning  her  back  to 
him,  covertly  unfolded  a  little  bundle  which 
she  carried  wrapped  in  a  gray  shawl,  and, 
running  her  eye  hastily  over  its  contents, 
quickly  rewrapped  it,  only  to  repeat  the  same 
mysterious  proceeding  again  and  again  dur- 
ing the  day,  as  if  making  quite  sure  that 
everything  was  there  as  it  should  be. 

The  bundle  contained  a  pair  of  long  wool- 
len stockings,  small  and  old,  a  shrunken  flan- 
nel cloak,  and  faded  hood  —  all  half-worn 
little  garments  of  Nick's  children. 

The  trip  was  a  quick  one,  and  the  tiny 
craft  sailed  through  the  mouth  of  Bayou 
Saint -John,  and  up  within  its  banks  to  a 
point  within  easy  walking  distance  of  Canal 
Street,  in  the  early  evening  of  the  day  they 
sailed. 

Before  dawn  next  morning  the  old  woman 
set  out  directly  to  the  Le  Charmants'  back 
gate,  having  first  bidden  the  mute,  by  a  se- 
ries of  gestures,  to  await  her  return  in  the 
boat.  Selling  the  contents  of  her  heavy  bas- 


54 


ket  was  the  pretended  object  of  her  visit,  and 
the  jingle  of  the  coins  they  brought  her  de- 
lighted her  old  heart  indeed ;  but  this  hour 
in  the  Le  Charmant  kitchen  must  be  made 
to  tell.  There  were  some  things  which  she 
must  know,  and  they  were  things  she  could 
not  ask. 

The  lighter  palms  of  a  half-dozen  variously 
colored  hands  were  soon  presented  for  her  to 
read.  There  was  not  one  of  the  lot  who  did 
not  count  the  old.  woman  a  famous  fortune- 
teller. 

Listen  to  the  delighted  exclamation  of 
one  of  their  number  at  the  gypsy's  wonder- 
ful revelations. 

"Mais,  I  am  sho' — s/io'she  is  one  witch,  yas! 
How  she  can  know  all  our  w'ite  people  goin' 
ride  in  somet'ing  wid  wheel  to-night — to  go 
at  dat  Mardi-Gras  procession  ?  Of  co'se  doze 
Dauphine  car  is  got  wheel,  yas !  Et  faoutez, 
Celeste!  She  say  dey  goin'on  one  high  place. 
Don't  you  find  Griswold's  galerie,  close  by 
Henry  Clay,  is  one  high  place  ?  Mon  Dieu  ! 
she  make  me  all  scare !" 

So  the  cunning  gypsy  led  them  on  until 
they  had  told  all  she  wished  to  know  ;  after 
which  she  indulgently  wove  wonderful  fort- 
unes for  all — fortunes  so  full  pf  event  and 


55 


excitement,  so  colored  with  sentiment,  that 
everything  else  became  of  no  importance  and 
was  quickly  forgotten. 

One  would  grow  rich,  one  travel,  one  draw 
a  lottery  prize ;  but  all  would  marry,  some 
once,  some  twice — all  happily.  What  a  fort- 
une-teller she  was!  And  how  these  poor, 
foolish,  ignorant  people  piled  her  big  basket 
with  good  things  from  the  family  larder ! 

Whether  the  panic  at  the  corner  of  Canal 
and  Dauphine  streets  was  of  the  gypsy's 
planning,  or  only  the  accident  that  helped 
her  terrible  crime,  is  hard  to  say. 

When  Babette's  little  hand  felt  the  grand- 
mother's relax,  another  closed  over  it  so  quick- 
ly that  she  did  not  notice  the  change. 

Pushing  the  child  gently  yet  firmly  before 
her,  keeping  silent,  the  gypsy  hurried  as  fast 
as  she  dared  down  Dauphine  Street. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  hour  would  any 
one  notice  that  while  an  old  woman  led  a 
handsomely  dressed  child  into  the  shadow  of 
a  dark  block,  this  same  woman  carried  out 
into  the  light  at  the  next  corner  a  fretting 
baby  wrapped  in  a  dark,  faded  flannel  cloak  ? 

Had  one  been  curious,  he  could  have  sat- 
isfied himself,  by  a  glance  at  the  shabbily- 


stockinged  feet  and  faded  hood,  that  it  was 
only  a  tired  mother  or  grandmother  carrying 
her  sleepy  child  home. 

While  poor  Tante  Angele,  two  hours  later, 
wept  and  wailed  on  the  front  steps  of  Christ 
Church,  and .  the  lemon  saluted  the  canta- 
loupe in  the  old  Varieties  Theatre  next  door, 
Noute  the  foolish,  steering  the  little  boat  out 
Bayou  Saint-John,  peered  and  blinked  curi- 
ously in  the  darkness  at  the  sleeping  bundle 
in  the  old  woman's  arms. 

The  theft  had  been  a  success. 


CHAPTER  V 

IF  the  sleepy  fishermen  along-shore  had 
noticed,  as  the  little  boat  came  into  sight  in 
the  early  daylight  next  morning,  that  there 
was  a  child  aboard,  they  would  have  taken 
for  granted  that  it  was  one  of  Nick's  chil- 
dren. Even  had  they  suspected  that  a  stolen 
child  was  hidden  somewhere  on  the  coast, 
they  would  have  guessed  that  Nick,  last  of 
all,  with  already  too  many  mouths  to  feed, 
had  taken  another. 

But  though  excitement  ran  high  over  the 
sad  affair  in  the  outer  world,  it  caused  not 
a  ripple  upon  the  even  surface  of  the  lives 
of  these  foreigners  of  the  beach. 

But  the  gypsy  kept  herself  fully  informed. 
She  knew  just  what  rewards  were  offered, 
and,  unfortunately  for  her  plan,  she  knew  the 
intensity  of  public  feeling  in  the  matter. 

Besides  the  universal  sympathy  and  in- 
terest shown  throughout  the  city,  the  Creole 
population  was  especially  and  justly  aroused. 
There  were  mass -meetings:  speeches  were 


58 

made,  resolutions  passed.  The  affliction 
which  had  covered  one  home  with  gloom 
became  their  common  sorrow. 

"Our  children  are  not  safe  at  our  own 
doors,"  they  said.  "We  will  resolve  our- 
selves into  independent  police  corporations ; 
let  every  man  count  himself  a  detective,  and 
let  no  one  sleep  until  his  neighbor's  child  is 
found." 

Thus  they  continued  to  meet  and  to  make 
speeches,  consistently  following  them  up  with 
earnest,  honest  endeavor ;  but  no  matter  how 
willing,  even  eager,  their  hearts,  human  flesh 
is  weak  and  grows  weary.  They  slept — and 
their  neighbor's  child  was  not  found. 

But  the  thief  was  frigJitcncd.  She  had 
formed  several  plans  for  returning  the  child 
and  securing  the  coveted  reward,  which  had 
grown  dazzlingly  tempting,  and  they  all 
seemed  feasible  enough  until  the  time  came 
to  execute  them,  when  each  seemed  to  leave 
a  dangerous  loop-hole  by  which  she  might 
be  detected.  It  is  true,  a  clause  in  the  ad- 
vertised rewards  promised  "  No  questions 
asked;"  still,  she  feared  for  her  life  if  she 
should  be  discovered. 

She  still  made  occasional  trips  to  the  city, 
clandestinely  peddling  her  fish,  and  from  the 


59 

gossip  of  the  Le  Charmant  kitchen,  to  which 
she  always  went  for  a  half-hour's  gossip, which 
was  more  important  now  than  even  the  coins 
she  gathered  there,  she  got  a  fair  report  of 
the  sentiments  of  the  family  connection  in 
the  matter. 

"  M'sieu  Alphonse  say  he  want  to  see 
somebody  claim  that  reward." 

"  M'sieu  Jean,  he  say  his  word  is  passed. 
Wen  dey  give  him  back  once  more  his  be"bde, 
he  is  willing  to  pay.  He  is  pledge." 

"Mais"  insists  the  first  speaker,  "M'sieu 
Louis  an'  M'sieu  Felix  an'  M'sieu  Aristide 
jump  up  quick  an'  say  we  are  not  pledge ! 
Your  reward  is  money.  Ours  is  so  /"  and  she 
clasped  her  own  neck  with  both  hands.  The 
motion  meant  that  the  culprit  should  hang 
by  the  neck. 

The  wretched  old  woman  did  not  gain 
courage  by  her  visits  to  the  Le  Charmant 
kitchen.  Many  nights  she  resolved  to  return 
the  child  on  the  morrow ;  but  the  new  day 
always  brought  new  fears,  and  found  her 
nervous  and  afraid. 

In  all  her  schemes  Noute  was  the  direct 
instrument  with  which  she  planned  to  work. 
He  would  be  safe.  He  could  tell  nothing. 
He  would  bring  the  money. 


6o 


But  supposing  he  should  be  killed!  He 
could  be  easily  identified.  He  would  never 
come  back  to  the  boat.  She  could  not  go 
home  without  him.  They  would  all  be 
ruined.  Even  if  Noute  should  escape  un- 
hurt— if  he  should  bring  her  the  money — his 
extraordinary  appearance  would  be  a  clue 
which  would  surely  lead  to  her  discovery. 

A  year  passed  this  way  and  another  was 
begun. 

We  have  seen  the  changes  in  the  Le  Char- 
mant  home,  and  their  departure  for  Europe. 

The  old  woman  had  never  been  able  to 
nerve  herself  to  the  act  that  involved  so 
much  risk  to  herself  and  family,  and  so  the 
only  result  of  her  crime  thus  far  was  an  add- 
ed care — another  mouth  to  feed,  one  more 
child  to  clothe — and  the  loss  of  her  best  cus- 
tomers. 

Summer  and  winter  passed,  and  came  and 
went  again — seasons  of  increasing  trial  and 
privation  for  the  wretched  family  of  the 
beach. 

Happily,  little  children  often  seem  to  thrive, 
like  wild -flowers,  upon  those  things  which 
come  by  gift  of  Heaven — the  life-giving,  pine- 
laden  air,  the  blood-warming  sun,  waters  full 
of  healing,  and  Mother  Earth  with  only  good 


6l 


gifts  to  such  as  will  inhale  her  breath,  lying 
prone  upon  her  motherly  lap  ;  upon  these, 
with  but  a  few  of  the  meagrest  simples  in 
the  way  of  daily  bread,  this  healthy  brood  of 
children  grew,  as  the  wild-flowers  by  the  way- 
side, in  richness  of  tint,  strength,  and  riotous 
beauty. 

If  the  little  aristocrat,  Babette,  was  fairer 
to  look  upon  than  the  others,  it  was  because 
of  a  certain  softness  of  line  and  tints,  a  mild- 
er coloring.  There  was  a  glint  of  brown  in 
the  deep  masses  of  her  flowing  hair,  whose 
waving  ends  the  sun  had  burnished  in  shim- 
mering rings  of  bronze.  Her  eyes  were  of 
changing  hues,  like  a  midnight  sky — not  al- 
ways of  one  mood. 

Her  little  companions,  whose  pedigree  of 
beauty  was  as  long  as  her  own,  with  their 
sharply-cut  cameo  faces  of  clear  lines  and  pos- 
itive blacks  and  browns,  their  straight  ebony 
hair,  and  lips  of  coral — ah,  they  were  pretty, 
too  ;  pretty,  pretty ! 

And  yet  in  looking  at  the  group,  one  would, 
perhaps,  accepting  each  little  Italian  as  a  per- 
fect type,  pass  satisfied  to  the  next.  But 
having  seen  the  radiant  Babette,  he  would 
look  again  and  again,  only  to  wonder  what 
might  be  the  hidden  meanings  of  so  much 


depth  and  suggestiveness  —  what  would  be 
the  effect  of  the  next  turn  of  her  pretty  head. 
Did  those  marvellous  brown  lashes  curve  or 
droop  ?  Was  she  a  real  human  child,  or  only 
a  sprite  ?  Could  one  ever  get  quite  near  her 
and  touch  her  cheek,  her  hair? 

To  those  who  may  say  this  is  overdrawn, 
we  would  ask,  "  But  have  you  ever  seen  Ba- 
bette  ?  No  ?  Ah,  well,  of  course,  to  you  it 
is  exaggerated."  "  But,"  says  another,  "  I 
have  seen  her,  and — 

"  What,  you  have  seen  her  ?  It  is  '  not 
half  told/  you  say  ?"  But  one  has  only 
words.  What  are  they  to  describe  a  beau- 
tiful Creole  maid  of  any  age  from  six  to 
twenty  ?  And,  then,  English  words,  too — 
clumsy  ponderous  English  !  If  one  might 
only  do  it  in  French  ! 

Babette  had  spent  nearly  three  years  in 
this  sea-side  home — half  her  young  life — and 
who  shall  say  they  were  unhappy  years  ? 

Could  any  group  of  healthy  children  be 
unhappy  under  conditions  so  rich  in  oppor- 
tunity ? 

No  matter  how  slender  the  family  purse, 
they  were  never  actually  cold  or  never  hun- 
gry more  than  once  or  twice,  for  just  a  little 
while  —  such  a  time  as  sometimes  various 


well-to-do  small  people  we  know  are  deprived 
of  the  thing  they  wish,  for  sake  of  discipline. 

The  child  who  goes  supperless  to  bed  one 
night  because  the  flour  is  out  is  no  more 
unhappy  than  he  who  is  sent  to  sleep  hungry 
for  having  slapped  his  little  brother,  or  rolled 
on  the  floor  in  a  temper.  Indeed,  his  unhap- 
piness  is  less,  because  his  hunger  is  unsea- 
soned with  remorse. 

It  would  be  hard  to  actually  starve  on  this 
Southern  sea-coast.  One  would,  perhaps,  not 
prefer  to  eat  fish  at  every  meal  —  as  some- 
times it  was  necessary  to  do — or  to  season  it 
with  macaroni  in  lieu  of  bread,  or  even,  as 
was  more  than  once  the  case,  with  persim- 
mons in  place  of  either. 

The  fastidious  ones  had  the  privilege  of 
taking  the  fish  first  in  due  form,  and,  omit- 
ting the  other  courses,  of  finishing  the  meal, 
in  regular  approved  style,  with  fruits.  And 
there  were  nuts  in  season — pecans,  walnuts, 
hickory- nuts,  chinquepins  —  and  grapes,  if 
you  please,  not  only  the  wild  muscadine,  but 
a  dense  half-fallen  arbor  laden  with  scupper- 
nongs,  rusty  and  brown  and  juicy  and  sweet. 
Somebody,  in  the  old  days  when  the  cabin 
was  young — not  so  very,  very  many  years 
before — had  planted  these  vines,  and  made 


a  rude  support  of  pine  saplings  for  them 
within  a  stone's-throw  of  the  hut. 

And  so  there  were  seasons  when  this  little 
flock  of  foragers  disdained  more  than  half 
the  meals  offered  them,  even  when  there 
was  macaroni  in  plenty — rich,  savory,  tomato- 
flavored  steaming  macaroni — growing  fat, 
like  the  squirrels  and  partridges,  on  the  lit- 
eral "  fat  of  the  land."  A  very  different 
fare  this  from  the  feasting  so  figuratively 
called. 

And  let  no  one  suppose  these  deprived 
children  were  without  amusements  and  toys. 
"Toys?"  says  some  one — "toys?  and  some- 
times not  enough  to  eat !" 

Certainly,  toys.  What  have  toys  to  do  with 
eating? 

"  But  where  did  the  money  come  from  to 
buy  them?  Were  they  second-hand  toys?" 
inquires  another. 

Ah,  now  we  understand.  Bought  toys  are 
made  especially  for  the  unfortunate  city  chil- 
dren who  have  not  the  real  things. 

Who  would  have  a  shop-made  spring-board, 
for  instance,  when  he  could  bend  down  the 
pliant,  perfumed  head  of  a  young  pine  sap- 
ling, sit  astride  a  crotch  in  its  shoulders,  and 
spring  ten  times  as  high  as  on  any  poor  man- 


ufactured  affair — and  swing  in  various  direc- 
tions, too  ? 

What  family  of  children  would  have  one 
or  two  spring-boards  for  an  entire  family 
when  they  could  take  possession  of  a  tree 
apiece,  and,  if  such  was  their  pleasure,  send 
them  all  towards  a  common  centre,  so  that 
the  riders  might  greet  one  another  and  run 
races  in  springing  ? 

What  regularly  balanced  seesaw  is  half  so 
good  as  a  rough,  irregular  beam  or  plank  laid 
across  a  fallen  tree-trunk? — a  nice  slippery 
trunk,  with  all  the  bark  peeled  off,  that  the 
seesaw  shall  not  be  too  evenly  poised.  And 
there  may  be  accidents — real  delightful  old- 
fashioned  head-over-heels  accidents.  Every- 
body who  has  ever  made  the  real  sort — and 
unmade  them  because  they  were  too  much 
given  to  accidents,  or  too  pokey  and  safe — 
will  understand  where  the  fun  comes  in. 

And  as  to  swings  ?  Does  anybody  suppose 
our  little  sea -side  children  had  no  swings, 
because,  forsooth,  they  had  not  ropes  or 
staples  or  scaffoldings?  Better  than  rope, 
or  chain,  or  hammock  of  twine  were  their 
long  grape-vine  swings,  hung  in  the  very 
best  places  on  the  strong  arms  of  the  forest 
trees — some  broad  enough  for  two,  and  oth- 


ers  just  right  for  one  to  stand  in  and  sway 
and  sing  and  keep  rising  higher  and  higher, 
until  she  could  thrust  a  foot  mischievously 
into  the  great  wheels  of  cobwebs  glistening 
in  the  sun,  and  watch  the  bright  red  and 
green  weavers  run  with  all  their  long  legs 
for  their  lives,  or  let  themselves  down  to 
the  ground  with  ropes  safer  than  any  patent 
fire-escape,  spun  as  they  were  needed. 

And  dolls?  Of  course,  dolls.  Why  not? 
A  store  doll  with  a  limited  set  of  machine- 
acting  accomplishments  is  not  to  be  men- 
tioned in  the  same  day  with  a  pine  baby. 
There  is  one  to  be  found  at  the  bright  green 
summit  of  every  tiny  pine-tree,  or  at  the  end 
of  every  limb  of  one  not  too  old  and  woody. 
She  must  be  carefully  cut  just  the  right 
length,  or  height,  and  the  needles  plucked 
from  face  and  shoulders.  Then  she  will  stand 
alone  on  her  fresh  skirt  of  green,  while  you 
find  some  sisters  or  brothers  for  her  in  the 
same  tree,  or  some  cousins  from  the  tree 
across  the  footpath.  They  are  just  as  amus- 
ing as  corn  dolls,  and  only  a  little  older  and 
more  independent  in  their  behavior. 

Of  course,  every  country  child  has  played 
with  corn  dolls,  and  knows  just  when  to 
gather  the  baby  ear  from  the  corn-stalk  — 


67 


how  to  take  off  its  cloak  of  shucks  without 
tumbling  or  tearing  its  long  robes  of  shining 
silk.  The  corn  dolls  are  very,  young  and 
helpless,  and  have  to  be  named  and  christ- 
ened, and  to  be  jolted  on  their  mamaris  knees 
for  colic.  They  very  rarely  have  trouble  cut- 
ting teeth,  or  tumble  over  in  learning  to  walk 
as  the  pine  babies  do. 

These  are  only  a  very  few  of  the  toys 
with  which  our  little  beach  children  amused 
themselves.  There  were  numbers  of  others. 

And  then  there  was  always  the  beach  — 
the  beach  with  its  delightful  warm  sand,  full 
of  pretty  pebbles  and  shells,  its  funny  creep- 
ing things  —  conchs,  snails,  and  fiddler-crabs 
— its  coming  and  going  tides.  What  better 
fun  than  gathering  a  lot  of  conchs,  building 
a  high  wall  of  sticks  around  them,  and  then 
watching  them  walk  about  in  all  directions 
trying  to  get  out,  while  the  little  crabs  fiddle 
away,  as  if  keeping  time  to  their  steps?  One 
can  always  catch  any  number  of  fiddlers  and 
conchs  on  this  sea-shore  ;  and  the  game  need 
not  be  cruel. 

Perhaps  the  best  fun  is  when  a  few  pickets 
are  drawn  from  the  fence,  and  the  conchs, 
blundering  about  with  their  houses  on  their 
backs,  do  not  find  their  way  out  for  a  long 


68 


time.  This  is  apt  to  be  the  case  if  the  open- 
ing is  made  on  the  shore  side  of  the  enclos- 
ure. They  seem  naturally  to  run  towards  the 
water. 

A  year  before  the  time  to  which  we  have 
come,  that  is,  when  Babette  was  about  five 
years  old,  something  happened  which  made 
for  her  a  friend  and  an  enemy.  The  friend 
was  the  humblest  member  of  the  household, 
and  the  enemy  the  master  of  the  house ;  but 
we  shall  see  which  was  the  stronger.  It  had 
been  a  long  time  since  Nick  had  given  Noute 
a  beating.  There  had  been  nothing  to  pro- 
voke it.  Nick's  one  want  was  supplied  in 
the  way  we  have  seen,  and  the  duty  of  pro- 
viding for  his  family  had  been  virtually  as- 
sumed by  the  "  foolish." 

This  had  been  a  season  of  development  for 
even  the  weak-minded  man,  and  he  had  dared 
to  bring  back  empty  the  demijohn  Nick  had 
placed  in  the  boat  to  be  filled,  whereupon 
milord  began  to  use  his  boot  as  he  had  done 
in  the  old  days.  Noute,  however,  held  him 
strongly  at  arm's  -  length,  and  would  have 
thrown  him  from  him,  when — what  was  this? 

The  little  child  Babette,  usually  so  gentle 
and  mild,  had  rushed  in  between  them,  and 
with  a  stick  was  beating  Nick  over  the  head 


and  in  the  face ;  and  when  Nick  seized  the 
stick  and  broke  it  in  her  presence,  she  stood 
unabashed  and  defiant,  and,  cheeks  aflame, 
commanded  him  to  stop.  Seeing  her  stand 
thus  with  head  erect  and  unabashed,  the 
miserable  drunkard  doggedly  dropped  the 
rod  and  sullenly  slunk  away. 

But  what  had  come  over  Noute,  "  the  fool- 
ish "  ?  Great  tears  were  trickling  down  his 
scarred  cheeks,  and,  throwing  himself  down 
at  her  feet,  he  took  them  in  his  hands  and 
kissed  them,  laughing  and  weeping  all  the 
while  like  a  foolish  child. 

If  Noute  was  a  "  low-down  dog  " — Nick's 
favorite  name  for  him — he  had  a  best  dog's 
best  trait  —  faithfulness  ;  and  no  dog  ever 
loved  a  master  as  this  poor  friendless  creat- 
ure henceforth  loved  the  little  child,  'who 
had  forgotten  even  her  fear  of  the  drunkard 
in  resentment  of  his  wrongs. 

Noute  scarcely  left  the  house  after  this 
without  bringing  something  to  his  little 
queen.  The  prettiest  of  his  flowered  cotton 
kerchiefs  he  brought  and  tied  about  her 
neck.  Down  upon  his  knees  in  the  sand  he 
fell  as  he  placed  it  there.  Pretty  shells  from 
the  islands  and  water-lilies  from  the  bayous 
he  would  gather  for  her,  always  presenting 


them  —  a  queer  notion  it  was  of  the  poor 
"  foolish  " — on  his  knees. 

One  day,  in  the  summer-time  it  was,  he 
brought  her,  in  great  glee,  a  mocking-bird 
in  a  little  wooden  cage  he  had  made  himself. 
He  took  particular  delight  in  this  gift,  and 
after  formally  presenting  it,  he  sat  flat  upon 
the  ground,  blinking  faster  than  ever,  to  see 
what  she  would  do. 

For  a  few  moments  she  seemed  as  delight- 
ed as  Noute  could  have  wished  ;  but  pres- 
ently her  little  face  grew  serious  and  trou- 
bled. The  pretty  bird,  unaccustomed  to  the 
confinement  of  a  cage,  was  beating  its  head 
against  the  bars,  panting  and  panic-stricken. 

Babette,  looking  sadly  at  Noute,  shook  her 
little  head  and  pointed  to  the  trees.  Then 
she  opened  the  door  of  the  little  cage  ;  and 
when  the  bird  flew  away  to  the  top  of  the 
highest  branch  she  laughed  and  clapped  her 
little  hands. 

If  Noute's  first  sensation  was  disappoint- 
ment, he  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  act. 
It  seemed  a  sacred  thing.  The  child  who  had 
fought  for  him  would  not  imprison  a  bird. 
He  sat  very  still  upon  the  ground  for  a  mo- 
ment, blinking  slowly,  as  if  trying  to  seize 
a  difficult  thought ;  then  taking  between  his 


hands  the  cage  that  had  cost  him  so  much 
labor,  he  crushed  it  to  pieces  and  threw  it 
far  out  into  the  water. 

Babette  had  given  him  his  first  idea  of 
freedom,  and  with  it  he  became  her  devoted 
slave  for  life. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INSTEAD  of  being  discouraged  at  the  loss 
of  his  first  bit  of  handiwork,  Noute  seemed 
quite  anxious  to  use  his  new-found  skill  in 
the  making  of  something  that  should  meet 
with  greater  favor  in  Babette's  eyes.  His 
only  tools  were  his  penknife,  a  saw,  and  the 
hatchet  used  for  splitting  the  family  kind- 
ling-wood or  chopping  into  short  bits  the 
fat  knots  of  resinous  pine. 

The  planning  of  this  bird-cage  had  been 
the  supreme  mental  effort  of  Noute's  life, 
its  execution  the  master  achievement  of  his 
hands.  So  much  concerted  action  seemed 
a  promise  of  better  things.  The  cage  had 
been  a  rough  little  structure,  with  its  irregu- 
lar slats  of  split  cane  set  at  faulty  angles; 
but  it  had  served  its  purpose.  It  had  held 
the  bird  securely,  afforded  air  and  a  perch. 
How  much  more  does  the  finest  gilded  bird- 
prison?  To  his  inexperienced  eyes  it  had 
been  a  work  of  art.  He  was  eager  to  try 


73 


his  prentice  hand  at  something  else.  What 
would  her  little  ladyship  like  ? 

Noute  did  a  good  deal  of  sea-gazing  and 
blinking,  and  wasted  considerable  energy  in 
idle  whittling  before  his  mind  had  been  able 
to  master  a  new  plan,  to  think  it  out  clearly, 
and  to  go  to  work  with  a  degree  of  method ; 
but  soon  —  much  sooner  than  one  would 
think  possible,  looking  at  the  mechanic,  his 
tools,  and  materials  —  there  stood  at  Ba- 
bette's  place  at  the  table  such  a  high-chair 
as  would  delight  the  heart  of  any  little  girl 
or  boy  in  Christendom.  Its  slender  rustic 
legs  and  arms  were  of  pine  saplings,  and 
across  the  back  was  braided,  with  poor  at- 
tempt at  design,  but  an  evident  eye  to  com- 
fort, a  close  net -work  of  willow  switches. 
Not  content  with  leaving  as  many  of  the 
green  leaves  as  possible  upon  the  willows, 
Noute  had  stuck  its  high  back  full  of  fresh 
wild-flowers  when  he  brought  it  in  to  pre- 
sent it.  Falling  on  his  knees  as  usual,  he 
placed  the  chair  before  him,  and,  lifting  Ba- 
bette,  seated  her  within  it,  made  a  comical 
blinking  bow,  and  rolled  over  backward  on 
the  ground,  laughing  with  all  his  might. 

If  Babette  let  the  other  little  children  sit 
in  the  pretty  chair,  turn  about,  when  Noute 


74 


was  ,away,  he  was  none  the  wiser ;  but  the 
usurper  who  was  reckless  enough  to  be  caught 
in  it  in  his  presence  was  always  instantly  de- 
throned. 

Strangely  enough,  the  old  gypsy  never  in- 
terfered in  any  of  Noute's  exhibitions  of  par- 
tiality to  the  strange  child  under  her  roof. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  faint  relief  to  her  guilty 
conscience  to  have  the  wronged  little  one  fa- 
vored, even  in  so  slight  a  way  as  was  within 
poor  Noute's  power.  And  so  the  chair  of 
honor  was  always  accorded  to  its  rightful 
owner  at  his  demand.  And  later,  when  her 
small  pallet  in  the  shed-room  was  found  one 
day  lifted  upon  a  brand-new  pine  bedstead, 
the  little  miss  was  granted  undisputed  pos- 
session of  the  imposing  bit  of  furniture. 

Noute  at  some  time  in  his  life  must  have 
seen  better  furnishings  than  the  Nicholas 
home  afforded,  for  the  bed  he  had  evolved 
from  such  rude  materials  as  he  found  at  hand 
was  of  a  pretentious  pattern,  with  a  crooked 
little  twisted  canopy  at  the  head  from  which 
to  hang  a  mosquito-net.  There  was  nothing 
like  it  in  Nick's  house — nothing  quite  like 
it  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  perhaps ;  but  it 
hinted  of  a  memory  of  better  days — a  mem- 
ory as  unsteady  and  imperfect  as  the  bed, 


75 


maybe,  but  as  surely  formed  after  a  remote 
design. 

One  day  in  the  spring  of  1872,  while  the 
winds  were  yet  chill  and  the  sunlight  faint 
and  weak,  Babette  came  into  the  cabin  at 
nightfall  with  bright  red  spots  on  her  cheeks 
and  an  unnatural  brilliancy  in  her  eyes.  The 
gypsy  was  alarmed.  She  had  heard  of  scarlet- 
fever  and  diphtheria  in  the  city.  There  had, 
indeed,  been  a  case  of  the  former  in  the 
house  of  one  of  her  customers,  where  she  had 
spent  an  unwilling  half-hour  waiting  to  make 
change  in  payment  for  her  fish.  How  dread- 
ful if  she  had  brought  the  dire  disease  home 
in  her  clothing,  and  this  should  be  but  the 
beginning  of  new  sorrows !  Besides,  she  had 
always  felt  a  terror  lest  any  harm  should 
come  to  the  strange  child  under  her  roof. 
She  was  not  at  heart  the  criminal  she  had 
become  through  the  inevitable  consequences 
of  one  deliberate  act  of  wrong ;  and  there  were 
many  nights  when  the  cares  and  trials  of  her 
old  life  were  rendered  tenfold  harder  to  bear 
through  the  horrors  of  a  guilty  conscience. 

The  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard,  in- 
deed. As  she  sat  beside  the  feverish  child 
lying  upon  the  rustic  bed  that  night,  only  a 
hard  pale  face  betrayed  the  deep  anxiety  of 


her  heart.  But  she  said  nothing,  and  on  the 
morrow,  having  given  the  little  patient  a 
cup  of  herb-tea  and  such  other  treatment  as 
she  administered  to  her  own  brood  on  occa- 
sion, she  stoically  started  out  with  Noute  to 
draw  the  seine,  for  on  the  next  day  they 
must  go  to  town. 

When  they  returned  in  the  evening  Noute 
missed  Babette  from  the  group  on  the  beach, 
and  creeping  stealthily  into  the  shed-room  he 
found  her  sleeping  restlessly.  When  he  laid 
his  rough  hand  upon  her  forehead,  it  burned 
him.  All  night  long  he  sat  beside  the  sick 
child,  and  when  morning  came,  and  the  old 
woman,  summoning  him,  pointed  to  the  boat, 
he  sullenly  shook  his  head.  He  would  not 
leave  Babette. 

The  old  gypsy  was  sadly  perplexed.  What 
should  she  do  ?  The  fish  and  crab  baskets 
were  packed,  and  everything  in  readiness  ta 
start,  but  the  sailor  refused  to  move,  and 
she  could  not  go  without  him.  Finally  he 
rose,  pointed  to  the  bed,  and  then  to  the 
boat.  He  would  go  if  she  would  take  Ba- 
bette, too.  There  was  no  time  to  be  lost 
in  indecision.  Heedless  of  consequences, 
she  hastily  wrapped  the  little  burning  form 
in  her  shawl  and  laid  her  in  the  boat. 


77 


During  the  long  hours  upon  the  water 
Babette  coughed  loud  and  often,  and  when, 
after  nightfall,  they  landed  upon  the  bank  of 
the  bayou,  she  was  evidently  so  ill  that  the 
old  woman,  fearing  that  she  would  die  unless 
something  should  be  done,  gathered  her  into 
her  arms  and,  bidding  Noute  stay  in  the  boat 
until  she  should  return,  hurried  into  the  city. 

Noute  followed  stealthily  behind.  He  had 
no  idea  of  losing  sight  of  Babette. 

It  was  a  stormy  night,  and  she  had  not 
proceeded  far  when  the  rain  fell  in  torrents. 
For  a  second  time  the  old  woman  hurried 
through  the  streets  of  New  Orleans  with  the 
stolen  child.  If  fear  of  detection  hurried  her 
steps  the  first  time,  terror,  lest  she  should  die 
in  her  arms,  hurried  her  now. 

She  knew  where  an  old  Indian  doctress 
lived,  far  down  in  the  quadroon  faubourg, 
but  it  was  dark,  and  she  could  not  find  her 
way  in  the  blinding  rain;  still, she  could  think 
of  nowhere  else  where  she  would  dare  go, 
and  so  she  blundered  on,  hoping  soon  to 
reach  a  familiar  locality  and  find  her  way. 
Such  was  not  to  be,  however.  The  All-Fa- 
ther, who  had  raised  up  a  friend  for  her  in 
the  poor  idiot,  could  make  the  very  storm 
which  threatened  her  life  an  instrument  in 


his  devoted  hands  to  save  it.  The  storm 
grew  every  moment  in  fury,  and  yet  she 
trudged  on.  Suddenly  a  loud  clap  of  thun- 
der seemed  to  shake  the  earth,  and  the  gut- 
ters were  beginning  to  overflow.  She  stag- 
gered now  as  she  picked  her  difficult  way 
along  the  slippery  banquette. 

Close  behind,  his  soft  hat  pulled  down  so 
as  to  protect  his  eyes,  walked  the  poor  mute, 
anxiously  watching  to  see  what  should  be- 
come of  her  little  burden — the  one  thing  in 
the  world  that  he  loved. 

As  the  dog  forbidden  follows  his  loved 
master,  dodging  the  expected  clod  at  first, 
and  growing  bolder  as  it  does  not  come,  so 
Noute,  fearing  detection,  kept  far  behind  un- 
til, his  anxiety  growing  with  the  storm,  he 
was  soon  but  a  few  steps  behind. 

The  gypsy  had  just  waded  across  an  over- 
flowed corner,  and  was  blindly  pressing  for- 
ward, when  an  old  gentleman  in  gossamer  and 
umbrella  rushed  past  her,  and,  pushing  open 
a  heavy  iron  gate,  hastily  entered.  Here  was 
Noute's  opportunity — an  open  door,  warmth, 
shelter  for  the  sick  child.  Quick  as  a  flash  he 
sprang  forward, and,  grasping  her  from  behind 
with  all  his  strength, pushed  the  gypsy  into  the 
open  gate. 


79 


While  the  poor  fellow  had  not  speech  and 
but  feeble  reason,  he  had  strength  of  arm 
and  devotion,  and  the  open  gate  with  its  in- 
vitation to  shelter  nerved  him  to  the  act. 

Through  the  gate  the  old  woman  sped  so 
suddenly  and  violently  that  when  she  reeled 
against  the  old  gentleman  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the  more 
startled  ;  but  before  there  was  time  to  ques- 
tion there  came  from  the  wet  burden  in  the 
old  woman's  arms  a  loud  croupy  cough.  Its 
metallic  ring  was  an  open  sesame  to  the  good 
man's  door. 

Noute,  standing  without,  trembled  with 
excitement  as  he  peered  through  the  iron 
gate  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  old  gentleman 
turn,  hold  his  umbrella  carefully  over  the  old 
gypsy,  and  carefully  help  her  up  the  broad 
granite  steps,  through  the  arched  hall  door, 
into  the  glowing  light,  he  danced  and  laughed 
and  wept,  all  by  himself,  in  the  darkness  and 
the  rain.  Then  he  ran  up  and  down  the 
square  for  a  moment,  as  if  studying  the  sit- 
uation, and,  forgetful  of  wind  or  rain,  hur- 
ried away. 

It  was  too  late  to  try  to  get  back  to  the 
boat  to-night — and  too  far — so  he  soon  found 
a  snug  corner  behind  an  end  of  an  old  dis- 


So 


carded  show-case  under  a  shed,  the  ram- 
shackle remains  of  a  dilapidated  building. 
Here,  in  dreams  that  took  their  gilding  from 
the  glimpse  he  had  gotten  into  the  rich 
man's  door,  he  spent  tthe  night.  He  had 
slept  too  many  nights  in  the  old  boat  at 
Nick's  wharf  to  care  for  a  little  wetting  now. 

Leaving  him  to  sleep  and  to  dream,  let  us 
go  back  to  Babette  and  the  gypsy.  The  old 
gentleman  who  had  taken  them  in  was  Dr. 

;  let  us  call  it  Bondurante.  This,  at 

least,  was  one  of  his  names. 

Before  the  old  woman  had  time  to  collect 
her  scattered  senses,  she  found  herself  in  the 
doctor's  comfortable  office,  and  he  lost  no 
time  in  ministering  to  the  sick  child.  Her 
cold,  damp  dress  was  replaced  by  dry  cloth- 
ing, and  the  shivering  feet  were  soon  wrapped 
in  warm  flannels. 

A  gentle-faced  old  lady  prepared  and  gave 
the  medicine,  while,  in  the  soft  motherly  arms 
of  an  old  colored  woman,  the  little  body  was 
slowly  warmed  back  to  life.  Had  she  been 
conscious,  and  memory  faithful,  she  might 
almost  have  fancied  herself  back  in  her  old 
home  and  in  the  loving  care  of  her  grand- 
mother and  Tante  Angele. 

If,  however,  she  retained  any  faint  impres- 


Si 


sions  of  the  tender  and  refined  associations 
of  the  first  three  years  of  her  young  life,  they 
were  for  the  present  overlaid  by  fresher  mem- 
ories of  a  very  different  kind. 

Through  all  that  night,  as  she  tossed  in 
her  sleep,  the  names  she  muttered  were  those 
of  the  beach. 

During  the  first  moments  after  their  en- 
trance every  one  had  been  so  much  engaged 
with  the  little  sufferer  that  the  old  woman, 
sitting  bolt-upright  in  their  midst  in  her  wet 
rags,  was  for  the  time  overlooked.  But  now 
that  everything  had  been  done  for  Babette, 
they  turned,  naturally,  to  the  gypsy,  and  be- 
gan to  question  her.  But  she  only  shook  her 
head,  feigning  not  to  understand.  The  doctor 
tried  English,  French,  Spanish,  Italian  with 
the  same  result.  She  ivould  not  understand. 

And  so  they  discussed  freely  in  French, 
their  own  tongue,  the  condition  of  the  little 
patient,  and  the  probable  occasion  of  the  un- 
timely visit. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  her  comprehend 
how  very  ill  her  child  is,"  the  doctor  said; 
"  she  may  not  live  through  the  night." 

The  old  woman  had  understood  well 
enough  all  the  way  through,  and  now  she 
was  filled  with  a  new  panic. 


S2 


The  storm  still  raged  without.  One  could 
not  send  a  dog  out  in  such  a  night  as  this. 

Taking  the  child  from  the  servant,  Ma- 
dame Bondurante  bade  the  negress,  Clarisse, 
provide  some  dry  clothing  for  the  old  wom- 
an, and  to  offer  her  a  bed  for  the  night. 
The  doctor  would  take  personal  charge  of 
the  sick  child. 

Obeying  her  movements,  the  gypsy  fol- 
lowed Clarisse  into  the  hall ;  then,  hesitat- 
ing a  moment,  and  pointing  to  the  floor,  wet 
from  her  dripping  garments,  she  indicated, 
by  a  twisting  movement  of  her  hands,  that 
she  wished  to  wring  her  skirts,  and  stepped 
out  upon  the  porch.  When  she  had  gotten 
safely  outside  the  hall  door,  did  she  stop  to 
wring  her  clothing  ?  Not  she.  Darting  noise- 
lessly down  the  steps — out  the  iron  gate — 
into  the  street — she  ran  !  Ran  as  she  had 
not  run  for  years — as  she  would  never  run 
again ! 


CHAPTER  VII 

AFTER  running  three  or  four  squares,  the 
old  woman  slipped  and  fell.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments, as  she  lay  in  the  wet  and  darkness, 
her  old  head  seemed  to  swim  round  and 
round,  and  she  lost  all  consciousness ;  but 
presently,  perhaps,  the  pattering  rain  in  her 
face  restored  her  senses,  for  she  raised  her- 
self and  looked  around — as  one  waking  from 
sleep — still  half  dazed.  There  was  not  a  fa- 
miliar object  in  sight.  She  was  lost.  She 
thought  of  the  Indian  doctress  as  still  a  pos- 
sible refuge  for  herself ;  but  in  which  direc- 
tion to  turn  to  find  her  now  she  could  not 
tell.  Shivering,  she  finally  staggered  to  her 
feet,  only  to  fall  again  ;  and  as  she  tried, 
leaning  forward  on  her  hands,  to  steady  her- 
self for  another  effort,  the  banquette  around 
her  seemed  to  rise  and  fall,  like  a  ship  at 
sea.  For  some  moments  she  lay  still,  sick  at 
heart  and  terror-stricken. 

It  was  still  raining,  though  not  so  heavily, 
and  through  the  misty  darkness  she  fancied 


that  she  could  descry  a  dark  object  ahead. 
It  might  mean  shelter.  While  she  peered 
eagerly  forward,  trying  to  see  more  clearly, 
the  clank  of  a  policeman's  club  sounded,  ev- 
idently near  at  hand.  Pulling  herself  to- 
gether now  by  a  great  effort,  she  crept  for- 
ward on  all -fours,  and  soon  found  herself 
safely  under  shelter.  What  it  was  she  could 
not  tell — did  not  care.  And  here  she  slept. 
Or  did  she  sleep  ?  Her  poor  old  brain  was 
in  a  whirl — her  body  tired,  tired. 

The  events  of  the  day  were  enough  to 
exhaust  her ;  those  of  the  past  hour  nearly 
drove  her  frantic.  How  had  she  gotten  into 
the  doctor's  gate  ?  If  she  had  been  forced  to 
say,  she  would  probably  have  declared  that 
she  had  been  thundered  into  it.  She  had 
no  impression  of  hands  having  touched  her. 
The  result  of  it  all,  however,  was,  in  many 
ways,  a  relief.  If  only  the  people  had  not 
seen  her ! 

She  had  long  ago  given  up  all  hope  of 
claiming  the  reward,  and  had  often  thought, 
before  the  family  went  away,  of  slipping  the 
child  into  her  father's  gate  some  night.  Her 
only  fear  was  that  some  time — somewhere — 
she  might  possibly  meet  her.  Babette  would 
recognize  her.  She  was  afraid  to  risk  it. 


Now  the  matter  was  settled.  She  was  sorry 
to  think  the  child  would  die,  and  never  get 
back  to  her  people.  And  yet,  looking  at  it 
in  another  way,  she  almost  hoped  she  might 
die.  No  one  would  suspect  who  she  was. 
There  would  be  one  witness  less. 

So  one  crime  leads  to  another!  When 
she  was  young  the  gypsy  made  up  silly  fort- 
unes, and  told  them  as  true  to  credulous 
people  for  money.  She  formed  the  habit  of 
untruth.  Thus  the  terrible  crime  of  stealing 
a  child,  for  the  sake  of  money,  became  pos- 
sible. And  now — oh,  the  horror  of  it ! — she 
hoped  the  sick  child  would  die !  Murderous 
wish !  And  yet  the  old  woman  was  not  at 
heart  a  murderer.  If  she  had  had  Babette 
at  the  moment  she  was  wishing  she  would 
die,  she  would  have  done  all  in  her  power 
to  make  her  well.  She  was  only  a  coward— 
a  coward  because  of  her  guilty  conscience. 
It  is  easy  for  a  coward  to  become  a  criminal 
— simply  because  of  his  cowardice. 

The  old  gypsy  was  even  fond  of  sweet, 
gentle,  loyal  little  Babette ;  and  yet,  be- 
cause she  feared  the  time  might  come  when 
Babette  would  point  to  her  and  say,  "  She  is 
the  old  woman  that  carried  me  away  and 
brought  me  back,"  she  wished  for  her  death. 


86 


If  the  gypsy  slept  during  this  night — this 
horrible,  lonely,  dark  night ! — one  would  not 
like  to  answer  for  her  dreams ;  and  yet, 
thinking  of  all  the  trials  of  her  poor  mis- 
guided life,  one  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  fox 
her,  and  hoping  that,  for  this  night  at  least, 
she  was  enabled  to  forget,  or  to  dream  of  the 
early  days  of  her  own  life  before  she  turned 
her  feet  into  crooked  paths. 

At  dawn  next  morning  she  arose  from  her 
hiding-place.  The  habit  of  early  rising  was 
one  of  a  lifetime,  and  there  was  something 
in  daylight  that  seemed  to  open  her  eyes. 
She  was  stiff  and  sore.  Her  shoulders  and 
arms  ached,  and  she  coughed.  She  had 
slept  from  sheer  exhaustion  ;  but  now,  awake 
again,  the  events  of  last  night  were  clear 
enough.  Her  first  thought  was  that  Noute 
would  be  looking  for  her.  She  must  get 
back  to  the  boat.  Of  course  she  had  no 
suspicion  of  Noute's  having  followed  her. 

Forcing  herself  out  of  her  cramped  posi- 
tion, she  stepped  out  of  her  nook  and  began 
rubbing  her  arms  and  stamping  her  feet,  try- 
ing to  overcome  the  stiffness  of  her  limbs. 
Then,  taking  off  her  shawl,  she  proceeded  to 
shake  it,  when  a  noise  quite  near  startled 
her.  She  looked  up.  Standing  not  more 


than  twenty -five  or  thirty  feet  away  from 
her,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  waking  up,  was 
Noute!  He  had  spent  the  night  at  the 
other  end  of  the  show-case.  The  recognition 
was  mutual,  and  yet,  after  they  had  dropped 
— as  if  shot — back  into  their  own  corners, 
both  began  to  hope  they  had  not  been  recog- 
nized. Indeed,  the  old  woman  was  so  filled 
with  consternation  at  this  unexpected  sight 
of  Noute,  that  she  began  presently  to  doubt 
her  own  eyes,  and  to  think  she  had  seen  a 
vision. 

There  was  indeed  something  uncanny  in 
the  sudden  appearance  of  his  grotesque  fig- 
ure, dimly  seen  in  the  half-light  of  a  foggy 
New  Orleans  morning.  They  both  sat  still 
for  some  time  fearing  to  move,  and  then  they 
seemed  anxious  to  reassure  themselves,  and 
presently  began  peeping  cautiously  around 
the  show-case.  And  a  very  funny  game  of 
bopeep  it  was  —  between  a  haggard,  super- 
stitious old  woman,  looking  for  a  ghost,  and 
poor,  weak-minded,  blinking  Noute,  now  anx- 
ious only  to  get  away. 

Growing  restless,  he  happened  to  glance 
upward.  Just  above  his  head  was  an  open- 
ing— the  deep  window  from  which  the  show- 
case had  been  removed.  It  took  less  time 


for  him  to  spring  into  this,  and  to  rush 
through  the  old  building,  making  his  escape 
through  a  door  opening  on  another  street, 
than  is  required  in  the  telling. 

Once  safely  out  of  sight,  he  took  to  his 
heels  and  ran  until  he  saw  the  low  bank  of 
the  bayou,  when  he  proceeded  leisurely  to 
the  boat.  The  gypsy  continued  the  bopeep 
game  at  her  end  of  the  show-case  for  some 
time  alone,  venturing  farther  forward  from 
time  to  time,  until  she  suddenly  realized  that 
there  was  no  one  there.  Then,  more  fright- 
ened than  ever,  she  pulled  herself  up,  and, 
limping  across,  made  a  careful  examination. 

Not  the  slightest  sign  was  there  of  any 
one's  presence.  She  didn't  even  notice  the 
dark  opening  above,  or  think  of  the  possibility 
of  Noute's  escape.  Shaking  her  head  sadly 
and  wondering,  she  hobbled  away ;  and  when, 
an  hour  later,  she  reached  the  boat  and  saw 
Noute  lying  apparently  asleep,  she  felt  that 
something  awful  was  going  to  happen.  Here 
was  Noute,  just  where  she  had  left  him.  She 
had  surely  seen  a  ghost.  As  she  stepped 
into  the  boat  Noute  poked  his  head  from 
under  the  sail,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  yawned, 
with  a  finished  hypocrisy  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  brighter  mind. 


S9 


When  the  colored  woman,  Clarisse,  had 
waited  for  some  moments  in  the  hall  at  the 
Bondurantes',  and  the  gypsy  did  not  come 
back,  she  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to  look 
for  her.  Finding  that  she  had  gone,  the  old 
negress  was  much  startled,  and  wfyen  she 
went  in  she  locked  the  door. 

Reluctant  to  believe  the  truth,  the  old 
doctor  came  himself,  bringing  a  candle,  and 
searched  the  porch  and  the  yard  below,  fear- 
ing she  might  have  fallen.  And  when  he 
went  in  he,  too,  locked  the  door  and  felt  un- 
comfortable. 

The  mystery  surrounding  her  lent  a  new 
interest  to  the  sick  child,  and  during  all  that 
night,  and  for  days  and  weeks  afterwards, 
while  her  life  hung  on  a  slender  thread,  she 
was  kindly  nursed  and  tended. 

Notwithstanding  its  polished  floors,  its  fres- 
coed ceilings,  and  tapestried  chambers,  the 
handsome  Bondurante  home  had  for  years 
been  a  house  of  mourning,  and  the  solemn 
stillness  that  reigned  throughout  its  parlors, 
halls,  and  galleries  bore  silent  witness  to  the 
sorrow  that  had  entered  it  nearly  twenty 
years  before. 

Then,  in  the  autumn  of  1853 — that  year  of 
the  terrible  epidemic  that  carried  sorrow  into 


QO 


so  many  homes  —  two  little  coffins  had  been 
borne  the  same  day  out  of  the  great  iron 
gate  by  men  in  stockinged  feet,  so  that  the 
parents,  who  lay  ill  with  the  yellow  scourge, 
should  not  know. 

Although  this  was  more  than  nineteen 
years  ago,  the  broken-hearted  mother  had 
never  left  the  house  since ;  while  the  father, 
already  rich  from  successful  practice,  had  re- 
tired from  the  world,  and  devoted  himself  to 
the  pursuit  of  science. 

Besides  those  whom  we  have  seen  —  the 
doctor,  his  wife,  and  Clarisse — but  one  other 
person  lived  on  the  Bondurante  place.  This 
was  "  Uncle  Tom,"  Clarisse's  husband,  a  su- 
perannuated old  negro  who  never  left  the 
yard. 

The  closed  house  needed  little  tending, 
and  neither  the  doctor  nor  madame  would 
have  their  quiet  lives  disturbed  by  strange 
servants.  Clarisse  they  had  had  always,  and 
her  services  were  sufficient  for  them.  They 
had  no  company,  excepting  occasionally  the 
priest,  and  their  wants  were  few.  The  doc- 
tor himself  supplied  their  small  table  from 
the  French  market.  Uncle  Tom  answered 
the  call  of  milkman  or  baker,  swept  the  mag- 
nolia-leaves from  the  garden-walks,  and  filled 


up  the  moments  between  in  rubbing  his  old 
rheumatic  legs  and  smoking  his  pipe. 

And  so,  in  one  of  the  busiest  quarters  of  a 
crowded  city,  these  four  old  people  had  lived 
peacefully  in  undisturbed  seclusion  for  all 
these  years.  The  neighbors  understood,  and 
from  the  low-browed  cottages  that  faced  the 
square  on  all  sides  they  looked  with  a  rev- 
erential sympathy  upon  its  high  brick  walls, 
as  if  they  bounded  a  monastery  or  church ; 
and  the  pitiful  story  of  the  handsome  son 
and  beautiful  daughter  who  had  died  the 
same  day,  while  the  parents  were  too  ill  to 
know,  was  told  many  times  on  summer  even- 
ings by  the  mothers  who  sat  in  their  white 
sacques  on  their  low  door-steps,  surrounded 
by  children  who  never  tired  of  the  touching 
recital. 

The  stately  old  brick  house,  sitting  dark 
and  still,  and  growing  dingy  and  time-stained 
in  the  centre  of  the  old-fashioned  garden, 
now  a  dense  wilderness  of  riotous  growth, 
dominated  the  neighborhood  like  an  embod- 
ied sorrow,  and  the  mothers  looking  upon 
it  often  drew  their  babes  closer  to  their  bos- 
oms, and  sent  up  to  Heaven  a  little  prayer 
for  the  lonely  mother  in  the  big,  sad  house. 

The  open  bars  of  the  heavy  front  gate  gave 


92 

the  curious  their  only  chance  of  a  peep  with- 
in, disclosing  a  cold,  broad  front  from  which 
the  gray  plaster  had  fallen  in  patches,  but 
over  which  a  friendly  ne  of  English  ivy  had 
thrown  a  rich  cloak  of  green. 

On  the  parlor  side  of  the  great  central  hall 
the  vine  had  left  no  hint  of  the  windows  be- 
neath, and  had  even  ascended  the  roof,  and, 
possessing  itself  of  the  chimney,  made  firm 
connection  with  the  branch  of  an  overhanging 
tree,  where  it  mingled  its  rich,  glossy  foliage 
with  festoons  of  gray  moss,  and  was  lost  in  a 
dense  mass  of  color.  Here  the  three  growths 
all  seemed  struggling  for  supremacy,  with 
about  equal  promises  of  success. 

From  the  two  broad  windows  in  the  left 
side  of  the  house  a  dim  light  shone  through 
the  heavy  shade  every  night.  This  was  the 
doctor's  library  and  study.  It  had  been  his 
office  in  the  old  days  of  his  practice — was 
"  office  "  still  to  any  of  the  poor  in  the  neigh- 
borhood who  asked  his  services.  As  it  was 
well  known  that  the  doctor  never  sent  any 
bills,  however,  he  had  little  free  practice. 
To  go  to  him  was  a  confession  of  poverty — 
an  advertisement  of  it.  Better  go  to  some  one 
who  charged,  even  if  one  could  never  pay. 
Still,  there  were  times  when  the  good  doctor 


93 


was  called  in,  in  extreme  cases,  because  of  his 
reputed  skill,  after  others  had  failed.  He  had 
been  out  on  such  a  visit  on  the  night  of  the 
storm.  He  had  felt  no  special  interest  in  the 
little  home  patient  at  first,  beyond  his  anxi- 
ety to  make  her  well  and  the  natural  feeling 
of  sympathy  one  feels  for  a  deserted  child. 
There  was  something  tragic  in  the  incident. 
Her  people,  he  surmised,  were  probably  poor, 
starving  wretches  who,  seeing  that  death 
seemed  imminent,  had  deserted  their  child 
in  her  extremity  to  die  and  be  buried  by 
strangers.  Of  course,  the  doctor  never  doubt- 
ed that  the  old  woman  had  voluntarily  sought 
his  gate. 

For  more  than  a  month  it  seemed  that 
Babette  would  die — and  yet  she  lived.  Final- 
ly, the  great  dark  eyes  that  had  gazed  va- 
cantly about  the  room  turned  appealingly  to 
the  faces  about  her  bed;  and  when  the  gentle 
old  mother,  Madame  Bondurante,  bent  over 
her  to  straighten  her  pillow,  two  thin  little 
hands  were  clasped  about  her  neck,  and  the 
parched  lips  kissed  the  old  cheek  that  no 
child  had  kissed  for  twenty  years.  And  then 
— oh,  how  strange  it  was  that  the  old  name 
should  come  back  to  her  ! — the  little  lips  said, 
"  Tante  Angele." 


94 


She  was  too  young  at  the  time  she  was 
stolen  to  remember  the  old  nurse  "  Tante 
Angele,"  or  even  to  recall  her  name  in  con- 
nection with  any  memory;  but  now,  after  the 
long  season  of  fever  and  unconsciousness,  it 
seemed  as  if  early  impressions  were  floating 
at  random  through  her  mind.  The  first  co- 
herent words  she  had  spoken  for  weeks  were 
"Tante  Angele,"  then  she  said  "N6naine" 
— her  own  name  for  her  grandmother  whose 
god-child  she  was. 

But  the  strangest  part — the  sweetest  part 
as  it  turned  out — is  yet  to  come.  Angele 
was  Madame  Bondurante's  own  name,  and 
to  hear  it  in  tones  of  affection  from  the  lips 
of  the  little  sick  child,  who  had  so  long  been 
her  constant  care,  touched  her  heart  strange- 
ly. While  the  child's  trembling  arms  were 
about  her  neck  she  had  called  her  name — 
"  Tante  Angele  " — and  so  fixed  her  own  place 
in  her  heart. 

The  old  mother  buried  her  face  in  the  pil- 
low and  wept.  The  little  waif  whom  she 
had  nursed  back  to  life  through  charity — 
only  because  it  had  come  into  her  way  to  do 
it — she  had  learned  to  love. 

When  the  doctor  came  in  an  hour  after- 
wards he  found  her  still  weeping.  Seating 


95 

himself  beside  the  bed,  he  took  the  little 
wasted  hand  in  his,  and  his  own  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  The  presence  of  the  child 
in  the  house,  day  in  and  day  out,  the  awaken- 
ing love  in  both  their  hearts  for  her,  had  re- 
vived old  memories. 

"  Oh,  my  children,  my  children  !"  cried  the 
old  mother,  burying  her  face  in  the  pillow  be- 
side the  little  stranger  child ;  while  Babette, 
not  understanding  and  indeed  bewildered  for 
the  moment  at  her  distress,  looked  in  ques- 
tioning wonder  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
had  a  vague,  misty  impression  that  she  had 
been  away  off  somewhere  and  had  gotten 
back.  There  was  something  indefinable  in 
the  refined  atmosphere  of  the  home  into 
which  she  had  fallen  that  seemed  strangely 
familiar.  She  was  still  very  weak,  and  dur- 
ing the  first  few  days  of  her  returning  con- 
sciousness she  would  fall  suddenly  asleep, 
and  on  waking  would  start,  as  if  not  quite 
sure  of  where  she  was.  Sometimes  she 
would  keep  her  eyes  closed  while  she  passed 
her  little  fingers  over  the  silken  spread  and 
felt  the  linen  pillow-case,  as  if  to  reassure 
herself  before  she  dared  look  about  her. 
Perhaps  she  was  afraid  lest  she  should  wake 
suddenly  some  time  to  see  the  sky  through 


the  cracks  in  Nick's  roof,  as  she  had  done 
many  a  time  during  her  life  on  the  beach. 
Even  the  language  about  her  puzzled  her 
ears.  Although  she  could  not  understand 
it,  it  was  not  wholly  strange.  For  more  than 
three  years  she  had  heard  only — what  shall 
we  call  it  ?  A  unique  patois  certainly  was 
this  dago-English,  with  the  intonation  of  the 
gypsy.  And  so  the  convalescent's  recovery 
was  somewhat  regarded. 

Soon,  however,  there  came  a  substitution 
of  impressions.  The  things  about  her  were 
real.  The  language  had  a  meaning,  and  the 
memories  of  the  beach,  with  its  jargon,  moved 
slowly  back  into  mistiness  and  shadow.  That 
was  the  dream  now,  and  yet  it  was  one  that 
came  to  her  many  times,  even  while  she  lay 
with  eyes  open. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  SECOND  month  passed.  Babette  was 
getting  well.  Her  beautiful  long  hair  had 
long  ago  been  sacrificed  to  the  fever,  and 
now  her  little  round  head  was  covered  with 
short  crisp  rings  of  brown.  As  she  sat,  day 
by  day,  in  the  middle  of  madame's  high  soft 
bed — the  greatest  token  of  love,  this,  that 
madame  could  have  shown  her,  surrounded 
by  books,  toys,  flowers,  everything  that 
eager  affection  could  suggest — one  could  see 
at  a  glance  that  she  was  the  ruling  member 
of  a  devoted  household. 

Clarisse,  the  old  colored  woman,  seemed 
quite  as  fond  as  the  rest,  and  even  Uncle 
Tom  would  hobble  in  and  lay  a  great  open 
magnolia  blossom  or  a  crepe-myrtle  bloom 
upon  the  bed  for  "'tite  mamzelle." 

Madame  Bondurante  was  very  busy  these 
days.  There  were  little  clothes  to  be  made 
for  the  convalescent,  and  she  and  Clarisse 
were  to  make  them.  The  sweet  secret  of  the 
mysterious  coming  of  the  child  intotheirhome 


and  hearts  was  too  precious  to  be  intrusted  to 
any  one  else — yet.  Madame  never  went  out. 
She  would  not  go  now  ;  but  did  not  Clarisse 
know  what  to  buy  for  a  little  girl's  wardrobe? 
She  could  go  up  to  Canal  Street  to  "  Syme's  " 
or  "  Levois  &  Jamison's,"  where  she  would  be 
sure  to  find  the  best  French  prints  for  every- 
day wear,  the  finest  merinos  and  plaids  for 
"  Sunday  "  dresses. 

These  two  old  women,  mistress  and  ser- 
vant though  they  were — formerly  owner  and 
slave — were  bound  to  each  other  by  many 
ties  and  by  years  of  uninterrupted  peaceful 
intercourse ;  and  while  they  sat  and  sewed 
together,  clothing  the  new  Joy  in  the  house- 
hold in  garments  fashioned  after  those  worn 
by  the  other  who  had  passed  out  of  it  twen- 
ty years  ago,  they  were  as  happy  in  their 
novel  task  and  as  unconscious  of  present 
styles  as  the  child  herself. 

It  is  true  Babette  did  pout  just  a  little, 
and  declare  that  the  broad  lace  -  bordered 
pantalets,  that  came  nearly  to  her  little  an- 
kle-ties, were  "  too  long,"  and  that  the  skirt, 
which  stopped  at  the  knees,  was  "  too  short ;" 
but  when  she  glanced  at  the  portrait  above 
the  mantel — the  grandest  picture  of  a  little 
girl  she  hacj  ever  seen  in  her  life— and  saw 


99 


that  her  pantalets  hung  down  in  exactly  the 
same  way,  she  was  quite  satisfied. 

The  girl  in  the  portrait,  sitting  day  and 
night  so  still  in  her  deep  gilt  frame,  holding 
a  red  rose-bud  in  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  she  clasped  the  neck  of  a  great  shaggy 
dog,  made  a  deep  impression  upon  Babette. 
It  was  an  imposing  picture. 

Some  day,  when  she  should  be  able  to 
make  friends  with  the  old  dog  who  followed 
Uncle  Tom  around  the  yard,  she  would  pick 
a  red  rose-bud  and  try  to  make  a  picture  of 
herself  like  it.  She  had  tried  the  pose  as  far 
as  she  could,  holding  up  an  imaginary  rose- 
bud, before  the  glass  under  the  pier -table, 
and  it  was  really  very  good  fun. 

It  is  true  the  old  dog  in  the  yard  was  not 
quite  like  the  one  in  the  picture,  and  the  lit- 
tle girl  was  very  different  from  herself,  hav- 
ing two  long  braids  of  straight  black  hair 
hanging  over  her  shoulders  instead  of  a  mass 
of  short  curls,  but  the  marks  of  elegance  were 
present  in  both.  There  were  the  low-necked 
dress,  the  short  puffed  sleeves,  the  long  pan- 
talets. The  rosebud  and  dog  would  make  it 
quite  complete.  Just  how  elegant  her  new 
garments  were  she,  of  course,  had  not  the 
slightest  idea. 


Madame  had  been  educated  in  a  convent, 
and  knew  all  the  fine  stitches  of  exquisite 
needle-work  that  were  taught  in  those  early 
days — that  are  taught  just  as  thoroughly  yet 
to  any  one  who  cares  to  learn.  There  were 
cambric  ruffles  with  drawn  threfds — hem- 
stitched and  trimmed  with  real  Valenciennes 
lace,  rolled  and  whipped  so  closely  that  one 
could  hardly  find  the  stitches  on  the  quaint 
garments  that  delighted  only  approving  eyes 
within  the  closely  walled  square.  They  were 
never  seen  without — would  not  be  for  many 
a  long  day,  if  ever. 

Madame  had  taught  Babette  to  call  her 
Tante  Angele.  The  child  herself  had  said 
the  words.  Before  any  one  knew  that  the 
question  would  ever  arise,  she  had  uncon- 
sciously named  the  relationship,  fixed  her 
place.  She  was  not  to  occupy  the  position 
of  only  a  little  waif  dropped  in  from  the 
street,  neither  had  she  intruded  within  the 
holy  of  holies.  She  had  not  said  "  madame" 
or  "lady"  after  the  dago  fashion,  neither  had 
she  called  her  "  mother." 

It  is  true,  she  had  only  once  called  the 
name  "  Tante  Angele,"  and  had  then  seemed 
to  forget  it,  having  even  to  be  taught  it  as 
something  quite  new  afterwards. 


This  madame  regarded  with  a  superstitious 
feeling,  and,  not  understanding  how  it  had 
come  to  be  lying  with  other  half-forgotten 
names  in  the  child's  mind,  to  return  as  will  a 
bit  of  an  old  song  sometimes  to  older  persons 
— to  come  and  drop  out  as  mysteriously — she 
said  that  the  angels  had  told  her  name  to 
the  sick  child.  And  she  believed  it,  too. 

It  is,  perhaps,  painful  at  first,  this  seem- 
ing transfer  of  the  name  of  the  old  servant 
Angele  to  another,  but  it  was  only  a  co- 
incidence. Perhaps,  as  time  wore  on,  it 
may  have  awakened  associations  or  suggest- 
ed questions  to  the  child's  mind.  She  was 
given  to  thoughtful  moods  sometimes,  and 
more  than  once,  as  she  lay  stretched  at  full 
length  upon  the  rug  before  the  fire,  after  one 
of  her  long  silences,  she  said  aloud,  scarce 
above  her  breath,  "  Xante  Angele  —  Xante 
Angele,"  as  if  the  name  had  some  mysteri- 
ous meaning  to  her.  But,  perhaps,  some 
other  time  she  called  other  names,  and  no 
one  happened  to  hear. 

Madame  heard  this,  however,  and  wondered 
just  what  it  meant.  Was  she  talking  to  the 
angels  again  ? 

Xhere  were  many  family  portraits  in  the 
old  house  ;  among  them  one  of  a  sweet- 


faced  woman,  at  which  Babette  was  very 
fond  of  looking.  "  Who  is  that  lady,  Tante 
Angele?"  she  asked  of  madame  one  day. 

"  That  is  my  sister,  who  is  in  heaven — my 
sister  Marie — "  Madame  spoke  with  some 
reluctance.  She  feared  questions  from  the 
child,  hardly  knowing  why. 

"And  is  she  another  one  of  my  aunts?" 

The  answer  came  slowly  again :  "  Yes, 
che"rie." 

"  Was  she  my  aunt  Marie  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  And  was  she  little  Marie's  aunt  Marie  ?" 

"  Yes,  love." 

"  And  did  she  call  her  '  Tante  Marie  '  ?" 

"  No,  che"rie.     She  called  her  '  Tantine.'  " 

"  What  is  Tantine,  Tante  Angele  ?  Is  it 
aunt?" 

"  It  means  '  little  aunt,'  cherie." 

Babette  was  thoughtful  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  asked  no  questions;  but  pres- 
ently she  rose  and  went  to  madame,  and 
climbed  upon  her  lap.  Then,  putting  her 
arm  around  her  neck,  she  said :  "  Tante 
Angele,  you  are  little.  I  want  to  call  you 
Tantine.  May  I  ?" 

"And  don't  you  like  to  call  me  by  my 
name — Tante  Angele  ?" 


BABETTE   AND  ••  LITTLE   MARIE' 


103 


"  Yes,  I  like  it — for  you,  when  I  say  it, 
Tante  Angele ;  but  when  I  am  not  speak- 
ing to  you,  I  don't  like  it  for  you.  It  is  one 
of  my  dream  names."  . 

"  A  dream  name,  my  precious  ?  And  what 
is  a  dream  name?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  but  I  have  a  great 
many.  There  is  '  Nenaine,'  and  '  Tante  An- 
gele,' and — 

"Never  mind,  my  angel,  dream  names  are 
foolish.  Forget  them.  Call  me  Tantine  ;  I 
like  it  better,  anyway." 

And  she  held  Babette  tight  in  her  arms 
while  she  was  speaking,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
she  might  fly  away. 

But  a  greater  trial  than  this,  even,  came 
one  day,  and  madame  was  not  in  the  least 
prepared  for  it.  Babette,  since  the  night  the 
gypsy  had  stolen  her  from  her  own  people, 
had  never  heard  her  own  name.  The  gypsy 
had  heard  her  spoken  of  among  the  Le  Char- 
mant  servants  as  "  Brtde"  her  pet  name  in 
the  family,  and  though  she  well  knew  her 
own  name,  she  naturally  avoided  using  it.  So 
she  called  her  "  Baby."  If  Babette  had  been 
asked  her  own  name,  at  any  time  up  to  the 
night  she  had  left  the  Sicilian  household,  she 
would  have  answered,  in  all  honesty,  "  Baby," 


104 


or  perhaps  "  Sissy,"  Nicholas,  as  the  children 
often  called  her. 

But  no  one  ever  asked  it.  She  had  never 
thought  it  out,  perhaps,  and  now  she  would 
never  make  this  combination.  But — well, 
she  was  beginning  to  ask  herself  questions. 

It  was  natural  that  madame  and  Clarisse 
should  have  called  her  "  Brtde  "  at  first,  for 
want  of  another  name.  Even  had  they  known 
her  real  name  they  would  as  often  have  called 
the  sick  child  by  the  tender  diminutive  ;  but 
when  she  accepted  the  name  so  readily,  the 
easiest  thing  to  do  was  to  let  the  subject  drift 
along. 

The  truth  was,  madame  did  as  little  think- 
ing as  possible  on  the  subject  of  Babette. 
She  was  afraid  to  think.  She  only  knew 
that  she  was  there.  She  was  very  dear.  A 
question  in  any  direction  meant  distress  and 
perplexity  of  mind. 

And  so  when,  one  day,  Babette  asked  sud- 
denly, "Tantine,  isBS&Se  my  real  name — was 
I  christened  Btbte  ?" — she  was  obliged  to  an- 
swer, "  No,  my  dear." 

"Well,  then,  Tantine,  what  is  my  real 
name?" 

Madame's  face  did  not  betray  the  panic 
that  reigned  within  her  heart  as  she  answered, 


asking  for  forgiveness  even  while  she  spoke, 
"Your  name  is  Marie."  And  to  herself  she 
said,  "  I  name  her  now  Marie." 

"And  am  I  named  for  my  tante  Marie, 
or  for  my  cousin  Marie?" 

"  For  both,  my  love." 

This  much  was  true.  In  the  brief  moment 
when  she  had  decided  the  name,  it  was  given 
in  memory  of  her  best  loved  —  child  and 
sister. 

But  the  catechism  lesson  was  not  over  yet. 

"  And  was  I  christened  long  ago,  Tantine  ?" 
she  asked,  presently. 

"  Long  ago  — when  you  were  small  —  yes, 
cherie.  And  now  it  is  time  for  Bebc'c  to 
come  and  take  her  nap.  She  is  not  very 
strong  yet." 

Madame  was  safe  in  saying  she  had  been 
christened  —  and  long  ago.  It  must  have 
been  so,  else  how  was  N6naine  (god-mother) 
a  dream  name? 

But  she  could  not  risk  another  question. 
Babette  was  not  sleepy.  She  said  so,  and  her 
bright  eyes  confirmed  it.  Then  she  must  be 
hungry?  No?  Then  they  would  take  a  walk 
in  the  garden  and  find  some  violets,  or  go 
out  into  the  poultry-yard  and  see  the  little 
chickens.  And  so  the  subject  was  changed. 


io6 


The  Bondurantes'  was  a  changed  home. 
Long-closed  doors  stood  open  ;  sunshine  and 
cheer  had  come  in  with  the  child.  There 
were  broken  toys  lying  around  in  a  disorder 
that  told  only  of  indulgence  and  devotion, 
and  the  old  walls  often  echoed  with  merry 
laughter.  The  old  couple  were  becoming 
bound  up  in  the  child  to  a  degree  that  was 
indeed  pathetic. 

And  they  had  not  thoughtlessly  nor  quick- 
ly taken  her  into  their  hearts.  For  weeks, 
although  convinced  by  the  evidence  that 
she  had  been  deserted  by  her  own  people, 
they  had  scanned  the  daily  papers  for  no- 
tices of  a  lost  child,  and  at  every  clank  of 
the  heavy  knocker  on  the  iron  gate  they  first 
hoped  and  then  feared  that  the  old  woman 
had  returned  to  claim  her. 

Now,  when  they  loved  her  even  as  their 
own,  there  were  times  when  they  shuddered 
at  the  bare  possibility  of  having,  at  some 
time,  to  give  her  up.  During  much  of  the 
nearly  two  months  of  her  illness  Babette's 
mind  had  been  a  blank,  and  as  bits  of  her 
old  life  came  back  to  her — names,  faces,  in- 
cidents—  they  seemed  to  belong  to  a  far- 
away  period,  and  what  they  all  meant  she 
did  not  understand. 


107 


One  day,  some  months  after  her  recovery, 
something  happened  that  filled  her  with  de- 
light, and  frightened  every  other  member  of 
the  household.  Ever  since  he  had  seen  her 
taken  into  the  doctor's  door  on  the  night 
of  the  storm,  Noute  had  come,  whenever 
opportunity  offered,  and  peered  through 
the  iron  gate,  hoping  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
child. 

The  old  gypsy  had  been  hopelessly  crip- 
pled with  rheumatism  ever  since  that  dread- 
ful night,  and,  after  hobbling  into  town  once 
or  twice,  she  had  come  to  terms  with  the 
French  market  tradesmen;  and  so  now  she 
always  waited  in  the  boat,  while  Noute  left 
the  basket  of  fish  in  the  market  and  returned 
with  the  money.  This  gave  him  greater 
freedom  than  he  had  known  before,  and  he 
never  failed,  both  going  and  coming,  though 
it  was  far  out  of  his  way,  to  pass  by  the  gate 
and  look  for  Babette.  Even  on  the  first  occa- 
sion, when  the  gypsy  had  hobbled  out  herself, 
Noute  had  locked  the  boat  to  the  shore  and 
deserted  it  as  soon  as  her  back  was  turned, 
hurrying  to  the  Bondurante  gate,  and  getting 
back  to  the  boat  before  her  return. 

When  several  months  had  passed,  and  he 
had  never  seen  her,  he  almost  despaired  ;  but 


io8 


still,  faithful  in  his  devotion,  he  continued  to 
come.  On  this  particular  day  he  had  waited 
as  usual,  and  was  just  turning  away  when 
the  little  girl  skipped  across  the  yard,  her 
hands  full  of  roses.  She  recognized  him  in- 
stantly, and,  running  to  the  gate,  handed  him 
the  flowers. 

Noute  was  wild  with  joy.  After  dancing 
and  laughing  and  even  crying  a  little  in  his 
old  way  for  a  moment,  he  hurriedly  threw 
the  roses  back  at  her  feet,  and,  with  a  series 
of  quick  gestures,  ran  away.  What  did  he 
want  with  flowers?  All  he  had  ever  gathered 
were  for  her. 

Babette  did  not  stop  to  pick  them  up,  but, 
running  into  the  house  in  great  glee,  told  her 
"  tantine,"  while  she  climbed  into  her  lap, 
that  "  Noute  had  come !  and  he  had  told  her 
by  his  motions  that  he  was  coming  again  !" 

The  sight  of  the  mute  seemed  to  revive  a 
train  of  memories,  for  she  began  to  tell  her 
"  aunt  "  and  "  uncle  "  all  about  "  poor  Noute 
who  could  not  hear  nor  speak,"  of  how  "  bad, 
drunken  Nick  had  scolded  and  beaten  him,'1 
and  of  many  things  of  which  she  had  never 
before  spoken. 

Is  it  any  wonder  the  old  lady  looked  at 
her  husband  sorrowfully,  and  shook  her 


iog 


head  as  she  listened  ?  If  some  one  knew  where 
she  was,  and  was  coming  back,  surely  there 
would  be  trouble.  They  would  have  to  give 
up  the  child. 

Old  madame  was  very  pale,  and  her  hand 
trembled  as,  stroking  the  little  girl's  curls,  she 
told  her  never  to  go  into  the  front  yard  again 
without  her  aunt  or  uncle.  She  held  the 
child  tightly  in  her  arms  a  long  time  that 
night,  and  no  one  knew  in  the  twilight  that 
the  old  mother's  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

On  the  next  day  the  old  doctor,  his  own 
heart  unsteady  with  fear,  said  to  his  wife: 
"  We  cannot  hide  this  dear  child.  She  came 
to  us  unasked.  It  was  the  Lord's  doing.  She 
has  blessed  our  home.  Let  us  pray  that  she 
may  not  be  taken  away ;  but  if  she  must  go, 
all  the  bolts  and  bars  in  Louisiana  will  not 
keep  her." 

The  doctor's  words  were  wise,  and  yet,  al- 
though his  old  wife,  heeding  them,  let  Ba- 
bette  play  at  will  anywhere  within  the  gate, 
she  kept  her  eyes  upon  her  whenever  she 
entered  the  front  yard.  And  the  gate  was 
kept  locked. 

A  week  after  this — a  week  to  a  day  from 
the  time  Noute  had  come— Babette  sat  upon 
the  arm  of  madame's  chair  on  the  front  gal- 


lery.  The  old  lady  was  nodding,  while  the 
little  girl  amused  herself  pinning  long  strings 
of  four-o'clocks  to  her  hair.  Every  now  and 
then  the  head  would  bob  so  suddenly  that  a 
flower -curl  would  fall,  and  Babette  would 
laugh  aloud  while  she  replaced  it,  when  the 
old  lady's  eyes  would  half  open,  and  then, 
smiling,  she  would  go  back  to  sleep. 

While  they  sat  thus  in  the  late  afternoon 
the  doctor  came  in  hurriedly,  leaving  the 
iron  gate  ajar.  Into  this  open  gate,  before 
any  one  had  noticed  him,  without  leave  or 
license,  walked  Noute.  Even  Babette  did 
not  see  him  until  he  was  half-way  up  the 
front  steps. 

Going  straight  up  to  her,  he  laid  a  little 
bundle  at  her  feet,  stepped  back  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  dropped  the  larger  parcel  which 
he  carried  upon  the  bottom  step,  and  sat 
down.  This  bundle  contained  an  old  blank- 
et, several  articles  of  shabby  clothing,  and 
some  scraps  of  tobacco — all  the  earthly  pos- 
sessions of  Noute  the  foolish.  He  had  come 
to  stay. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  old  lady  screamed 
when,  waking  suddenly,  she  saw  poor  Noute 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  a  half-dozen 
feet  away,  blinking  and  grinning?  Is  it  any 
wonder  that,  seeing  him,  she  seized  Babette 
and  held  her  tightly  in  her  arms?  Noute 
was  not  beautiful  or  prepossessing. 

The  doctor,  hearing  madame  scream,  ran 
out  in  alarm,  fearing  that  something  terri- 
ble had  happened,  and  when  he  saw  what 
had  taken  place  he  was  startled  and  sorely 
puzzled. 

Intelligent  communication  with  this  un- 
canny-looking half-idiot  seemed  impossible. 
After  thinking  over  the  matter  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, during  which  time  Noute's  blinking 
eyes  moved  eagerly  from  one  face  to  an- 
other of  the  three  above  him,  the  doctor  de- 
cided that  he  must  go. 

Going  to  him,  he  took  his  bundle  from  the 
step  and  pointed  to  the  gate.  Seeing  that 
this  had  no  effect,  he  moved  towards  the 


gate  with  the  parcel ;  but  at  this  Noute  only 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  Babette  with  an  expres- 
sion of  helpless  appeal  that  was  pitiful. 

Evidently,  if  he  were  to  go,  his  orders 
must  come  from  the  youngest  person  present. 
Noticing  this,  the  doctor  took  Babette  by 
the  hand  and  bade  her  make  him  understand 
that  he  must  go ;  but,  instead  of  obeying, 
she  threw  herself  in  the  old  doctor's  arms 
and  began  to  cry,  begging  that  Noute  might 
stay.  For  a  second  time  she  was  his  cham- 
pion. 

Seeing  her  distress,  the  doctor  sat  down 
and  drew  her  upon  his  lap,  while  he  tried  to 
reason  with  her.  But  with  her  arms  half  the 
time  around  his  neck  she  told,  between  sobs, 
the  pitiful  story  of  Noute's  life — as  it  came 
back  to  her,  seeing  him  sitting  there  before 
her:  of  how  Nick  kicked  and  beat  him ;  how, 
rain  or  shine,  cold  or  warm,  he  slept  in  the 
old  boat;  how  he  worked  and  fished  and 
made  her  pretty  things,  and  never  hurt  any- 
body. He  couldn't  help  being  ugly,  and 
blinking  :  God  made  him  that  way. 

How  could  they  resist  her  ?  After  a 
short  whispered  consultation  they  decided 
that  perhaps  it  was  best  to  let  events  take 
their  own  course  in  all  things  concerning  the 


"3 

child.  Excepting  for  their  fears,  this  would 
have  been  the  easiest  thing  to  do,  anyway. 
They  were  naturally  kind  to  the  poor  and 
unfortunate.  It  was  always  easier  to  say  yes 
than  no. 

And  so  Noute  stayed.  Uncle  Tom  was 
called  and  instructed  to  give  him — at  least, 
for  the  present — a  room  in  an  outer  build- 
ing in  the  yard. 

The  old  negro  scratched  his  head,  and 
looked  very  doubtful  and  suspicious  when 
he  saw  the  remarkable  individual  whom  he 
was  to  instate  as  his  own  near  neighbor ; 
but,  hobbling  off,  he  soon  returned  with  a 
big  iron  key,  signifying  his  readiness  to 
obey. 

When  he  finally  started  across  the  yard 
Babette  motioned  to  Noute  to  follow  ;  and, 
eager  to  see  him  installed,  she  skipped  along 
at  his  side,  while  the  doctor  and  his  wife, 
with  a  nervous  fear  that  the  weird  creature 
might  seize  the  child  and  mysteriously  dis- 
appear, followed  slowly  behind. 

Clarisse,  hearing  the  commotion,  had  also 
come  out  to  see,  and  now  brought  up  the 
rear,  wiping  first  one  and  then  the  other  of 
her  clean  hands  upon  her  apron  as  she 
walked — a  way  she  had  of  expressing  her 


disapproval  of  things  in  general  when  words 
would  have  been  out  of  place.  It  was  a 
queer  Httle  procession. 

When  Uncle  Tom  opened  the  door  and 
put  Noute's  bundle  in  the  room  and  point- 
ed to  the  bed,  the  poor  creature  seemed,  for 
a  few  moments,  to  lose  all  control  of  himself 
in  excess  of  joy. 

He  skipped  up  and  down  the  yard,  threw 
up  his  hat  and  caught  it,  turned  several  som- 
ersaults, and  finally,  grinning  and  fanning 
himself  with  his  hat,  took  his  seat,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  poor  life,  on  his  own  doorstep. 

Whether  begged  or  borrowed,  it  was  his 
room,  his  bed,  his  home — a  home  at  the 
foot  of  the  throne,  upon  which  sat  his  little 
divinity,  Babette.  And  so  they  left  him 
— still  grinning,  blinking,  and  fanning  —  as 
happy  as  a  lord. 

When  they  returned  to  the  house  the 
doctor  went  into  his  study,  and  for  several 
hours  he  could  be  heard  slowly  walking 
up  and  down  the  length  of  the  room.  His 
hands  were  clasped  behind  his  back,  and  he 
was  lost  in  thought. 

Babette,  remembering  the  little  bundle 
Noute  had  brought  her,  ran  back  to  the 
front  porch,  madame  following.  And  these 


"5 

are  the  things  the  bundle  contained  :  a  little 
embroidered  muslin  dress,  time-worn  and 
yellow;  a  pair  of  blue  kid  slippers  and  silk 
stockings,  wrapped  in  a  blue  cashmere  cloak ; 
and  a  long  blue  silken  cord  with  heavy  tas- 
sels. Tied  in  a  separate  parcel  within  the 
blue  cloak  was  a  red  cotton  kerchief  filled 
with  trinkets — a  lot  of  pebbles  and  pretty 
shells,  a  tiny  wooden  boat,  and  various 
pieces  of  doll  furniture. 

These  things  Babette  recognized  as  her 
playthings  of  the  beach.  Noute  had  made 
them  for  her.  But  of  the  clothing  she  knew 
only  a  very  little. 

She  had  seen  the  bundle  tucked  into  a 
niche  above  the  rafters  in  Nick's  house,  and 
"granny"  had  told  her  that  they  were  her 
"  christening  clothes,"  and  some  day  she 
would  wear  them,  when  they  would  go  to 
the  city  in  a  boat. 

When  they  came  to  the  city  she  was  sick, 
and  granny  was  in  a  hurry.  Maybe  she  for- 
got to  bring  them  ?  This  was  all  she  knew. 
Did  Tantine  know  any  more  ?  Did  her  own 
mother  make  the  christening  dress,  or  did 
Tantine  make  it  ?  Why  did  they  send  her 
to  live  with  granny  ? 

These  were  questions  hard  to  answer,  but 


madame  knew  not  whether  they  were  hard 
or  easy.  She  scarcely  heard  them.  She 
seemed  to  be  in  a  dream.  It  was  all  so 
strange.  Here  were  new  items — even  a  new 
name  —  "granny."  She  was,  no  doubt,  the 
old  woman  who  had  deserted  the  sick  child 
— was  her  "  grandmother,"  just  as  they  had 
suspected. 

Every  word  had  fallen  like  lead  upon  the 
old  lady's  heart,  and  as  she  turned  the  dain- 
ty garments  over  and  over  on  her  lap  with 
trembling  fingers  tears  blinded  her  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  Tantine  ?  Do  my 
christening  clothes  make  you  think  of  my 
mother,  or  of  your  little  girl  Marie?  Don't 
cry,  Tantine.  Let  us  put  them  away."  So, 
smothering  her  old  face  with  kisses,  Babette 
comforted  madame  in  the  best  way  she 
knew. 

The  bundle  of  clothing  told  a  new  story. 
Unless  the  child  had  been  the  protegee  of 
some  rich  woman  who  had  given  her  these 
garments,  she  was  herself  of  refined  people, 
as  every  feature  and  instinct  had  already  de- 
clared. Rich  people  do  not  often  give  such 
garments  as  these  to  the  poor.  It  was  a  great 
mystery. 

The  old  couple  sat  up  very  late  that  night, 


II? 


talking  over  Noute's  coming ;  but  the  wife 
did  not  tell  her  husband  about  the  mysteri- 
ous clothing.  She  was  afraid. 

During  the  first  few  days  after  Noute's 
arrival  Babette  prattled  often  of  the  past, 
but  her  words  gave  no  clew  to  her  history. 
There  were  "pebbles,"  "shells,"  "a  boat." 
There  must  have  been  a  sea -shore  —  but 
where  ? 

Noute  the  foolish,  the  dumb,  coming  as  a 
representative  of  her  people,  instead  of  an- 
swering any  of  their  questions,  seemed  like  a 
grotesque  interrogation -point,  punctuating 
every  mental  query  with  a  final  doubt.  And 
yet,  try  as  hard  as  they  might,  they  could 
not  be  quite  sorry  he  was  mute.  It  was  as 
if  a  suddenly  discovered  door,  through  which 
Babette  might  escape,  had  been  found  safely 
locked  and  barred. 

The  child  occasionally  spoke  of  strange 
children,  but  their  Italian  names,  while  they 
confirmed  first  suspicions,  really  told  as  little 
as  those  she  had  called  before — granny,  Nick, 
or  Noute. 

Noute  had  appeared  in  the  flesh,  it  is  true, 
but  he  could  not  even  speak  for  himself, 
much  less  could  he  unfold  Babette's  strange 
story — or  even  such  bits  of  it  as  he  knew. 


n8 


There  was  no  name  on  the  clothing.  Of 
course,  madame  never  thought  of  anything 
so  absurd  as  looking  inside  the  blue  tassels. 

Noute  proved  all  Babette  had  promised 
for  him  —  he  was  industrious,  obedient,  and 
obliging.  When  Uncle  Tom  handed  him 
a  broom — and  the  old  man  presented  it  at 
arm's-length — he  nearly  swept  the  ground 
away.  There  were  no  more  leaves  for  the  old 
rheumatic  to  pick  up.  After  being  shown 
once  how  to  do  any  simple  mechanical  work, 
Noute  needed  no  further  teaching — no  re- 
minding. 

Seeing  how  capable  he  was,  Uncle  Tom 
began  to  recover  some  of  his  old  ambitions 
regarding  the  old  garden.  The  box-hedge 
bordering  many  of  its  curiously  shaped  flow- 
er-beds had  grown  disorderly  and  irregular. 
He  easily  showed  Noute,  by  clipping  it  for 
a  short  distance  himself,  how  to  restore  it 
to  its  old  primness  of  outline,  and  soon 
every  border  within  the  square  presented  a 
surface  as  level  as  a  table. 

The  cocoa-grass,  that  had  for  years  held 
undisputed  sway  in  the  interstices  between 
the  bricks  of  the  winding  walks,  defining  the 
design  in  which  they  were  laid  in  a  bright 


green  bobbinet  figure  stretched  diagonally, 
was  the  next  object  of  Noute's  attention; 
and  then  the  bricks  themselves  came  in  for  a 
peeling  process.  Whether  coated  in  moss  or 
lichen  or  velvet  mould,  it  was  all  one  to  the 
keen  edge  of  Noute's  trowel.  But  full  joy 
came  with  the  laying  on  of  the  red  wash. 
Not  a  brick  within  the  four  streets  dared 
show  a  bearded  face  but  with  one  swoop 
of  his  razor-edged  tool  it  was  clean  shaven, 
while  a  sweeping  touch  of  the  brush  restored 
its  blooming  color. 

It  was  not  long  before  Noute  was  gener- 
ally acknowledged  to  be  a  most  valuable 
acquisition.  Capable  in  many  ways,  he  was 
ever  willing.  There  was  only  one  thing 
that  he  would  not  do.  He  would  not  leave 
the  yard.  When  directed  on  one  occasion  to 
go  out  on  a  simple  errand,  he  sat  flat  upon 
the  ground  and  refused  to  move. 

Perhaps  he  dimly  realized  that  the  iron 
gate  was  the  visible  boundary  between  his 
present  life  of  comparative  luxury  and  the 
former  one  of  privation  and  abuse.  And 
then  Babette  was  within  these  walls — Ba- 
bette  who  had  fought  for  him  on  the  beach, 
who  had  pleaded  for  him  with  tears  at  the 
big  gate,  the  sweet  child  Babette — all  he 


loved  in  the  whole  wide  world.  Maybe  if  he 
should  ever  go  out,  the  gate  would  be  locked. 

Whenever  there  was  no  special  duty  in 
sight  and  he  was  tired  cutting  cocoa-grass — 
for  no  one  who  undertakes  to  keep  down  the 
aspiring  heads  of  a  cocoa-crop  can  ever  say 
he  has  nothing  to  do — he  rested  himself  by 
such  change  of  occupation  as  he  found  in 
making  pretty  things  for  Babette. 

There  were  soon  little  rustic  seats  under 
many  of  the  trees  for  her,  swings  wherever  a 
projecting  limb  offered  a  suggestion,  while 
the  great  spreading  oak,  that  cast  its  shade 
over  a  broad  space  within  one  corner  of  the 
square,  held  up  in  its  bosom  a  perfect  bijou 
of  doll-houses.  A  narrow  stair,  rudely  made 
but  strong,  wound  around  its  trunk,  leading 
to  a  room  above,  in  which,  besides  many  ex- 
pensive toys,  were  various  articles  of  doll- 
furniture  of  Noute's  making.  Within  the 
one  small  door  of  this  playhouse,  surround- 
ed by  her  numerous  doll  -  family,  Babette 
would  sit  in  her  little  rocker,  singing  some 
preferred  baby  to  sleep. 

The  doctor's  hammock  hung  from  the  oak 
at  the  foot  of  the  winding  stair,  and  often 
in  the  summer  afternoons,  while  languidly 
swinging,  he  would  close  his  book  or  lay 


aside  his  paper,  and  enter  into  a  game  of 
"playing  ladies  "  with  the  little  house-keeper 
above  his  head.  Conversations  would  gener- 
ally begin  in  about  this  fashion.  Of  course 
they  were  always  in  French,  though  occa- 
sionally Babette's  answers  were  interspersed 
with  English  words  of  very  mixed  accent. 

"  Isn't  it  getting  too  cold  for  you,  Mrs. 
Highflyer,  so  far  north?"  the  doctor  would 
begin. 

"  Not  at  all,  doctor;  but  it  makes  my  chil- 
dren very  sick." 

"  That  is  too  bad ;  you'd  better  bring  them 
south  and  let  me  treat  them." 

"  Well,  I  think  I  will  bring  a  few  who  have 
the  worst  sicknesses."  And  down  the  little 
doll-mother  would  trudge,  her  arms  full  of 
sick  babies. 

If  the  little  maman  wanted  medicine  given 
in  abundance,  she  was  not  disappointed.  The 
doctor  would  send  her  over  to  "  Dr.  Indian 
Shot's  drug-store  "  for  pills  for  the  rag-baby 
who  had  measles,  and  away  she  would  go, 
and  bend  down  the  tall,  dry  seed-pods  of  the 
canna  stalks  for  the  pills  which  "  Dr.  Indian 
Shot  "  always  kept  in  stock. 

Of  course  the  rag-baby  would  be  bad,  and 
have  to  be  spanked  before  she  would  swal- 


low  them.  Dolls  usually  have  to  be  spanked 
before  they  will  take  any  medicine,  and  es- 
pecially rag-dolls,  who  have  no  noses  to  be 
held. 

The  wax-doll  was  often  pronounced  in  a 
"  dangerous  condition,"  rolling  her  eyes  as  if 
she  were  "  going  into  fits."  She  must  have 
mustard-plasters  —  tiger-lily  petals  —  tied  on 
wrists  and  ankles. 

Another,  who  was  "  bilious,'"  needed  a 
capsule  of  rhubarb  —  a  whole  acorn;  while 
yet  another,  deathly  pale  with  the  paint 
all  washed  off  her  face,  needed  nourishing. 
Fresh  milk  from  the  fig-leaves — exactly  an 
acorn-cupful  every  fifteen  minutes  —  would 
bring  back  the  color  to  her  cheeks.  The 
black  baby  who  bled  sawdust  had  to  be 
bandaged,  and,  indeed,  there  was,  according 
to  all  accounts,  not  a  healthy  doll  in  the 
lot. 

Happy  days  were  these  for  Babette  ;  hap- 
py days  for  the  old  doctor  ;  happy,  happy 
days  for  all  who  loved  the  sweet  child. 

The  doctor,  indeed,  loved  her  as  if  she 
had  Always  been  his  own  ;  and  when  his  wife 
taught  her  that  she  was,  in  truth,  their  veri- 
table niece,  and  that  they  had  sent  her  to 
the  sea-shore  for  a  time  so  that  she  might 


123 

grow  strong,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  inter- 
fere. So  Babette,  or  Btbfa,  as  she  was  al- 
ways called,  lived  on,  happy  in  the  unques- 
tioning belief  that  she  was  a  real  niece  of  her 
dearly  beloved  "  aunt  "  and  "  uncle." 

It  is  a  pity  when  devotion  is  so  short- 
sighted as  to  place  those  we  love  best  in  a 
false  position  ;  and  yet  these  awful  mistakes 
are  made  every  day  in  this  mistake-making 
world,  with  so  much  suffering  and  pain  as  a 
result. 

Of  course  it  became  known  in  the  neigh- 
borhood after  a  time  that  a  child  had  come 
into  the  great,  still  house  ;  and  when  some 
one  said  it  was  a  niece,  another  answered: 
"Oh  no,  not  a  niece — a  great-niece,  maybe. 
Dey  have  many  r///ation,  but  for  twenty 
years  dey  have  not  seen  one.  •  For  a  whole 
year — yes,  two  year — carriages  come  an'  stop 
at  de  door ;  but  madame,  she  see  nobody. 
So  dey  come  no  more.  Now,  maybe  one  of 
doze  niece  or  cousin  is  die  an'  leave  a  child, 
and  dey  take  it,  or  maybe  one  orphan  asy- 
lum give  it ;  but  I  b'lieve  not.  Doze  Bon- 
durante  don't  wait  twenty  year  to  pick  a  or- 
phan when  dey  want  one.  No  ;  dat  chile, 
she  is  got  good  blood.  You  can  see  dat  on 
'er  face.  She  is  Bondurante  —  on'y  not  a 


I24 


niece  —  maybe  a  great-niece;  but  it's  all  de 
same.  An'  it's  a  good  t'ing — yas." 

A  number  of  nodding  heads  showed  ap- 
proval of  the  speaker's  sentiments. 

It  was  a  good  thing  that  the  doors  of  the 
great  house  were  opened  and  sunshine  had 
flowed  in — so  all  agreed. 

And  so  curiosity  was  satisfied.  No  one 
beyond  the  walls  knew  any  of  the  real  cir- 
cumstances of  Babette's  coming,  excepting 
the  old  gypsy.  And  she  would  never  tell. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Bondurantes'  only 
near  of  kin  were  a  sister  of  the  doctor  and 
her  family  living  in  France. 

If  any  of  their  distant  connections,  of 
whom  there  were  many,  heard  of  their 
adopting  a  child,  they  would  take  little  in- 
terest in  the  fact.  They  had  been  denied 
admittance  as  comforters.  They  would  not 
go  to  congratulate. 

The  true  story,  so  far  as  the  family  them- 
selves knew  it,  was  pretty  safe. 

When  madame  said,  "  She  is  our  niece," 
Clarisse  would  have  sworn  to  it. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  they  did  not  as- 
sociate this  child  with  the  little  one  stolen 
several  years  before ;  but  yet  there  was 
every  reason  why  they  should  not  have 


125 

done  so.  Had  not  they,  with  their  own 
eyes,  seen  her  deserted  by  her  own  grand- 
mother? 

The  only  possible  suggestion  of  the  little 
Le  Charmant  child  was  the  description  of 
the  clothing,  which  madame  had  put  out  of 
sight  and  mind  as  quickly  as  possible,  not 
because  of  any  definite  suspicion,  but  for 
their  definite  hint  that  there  might  be  a 
mystery  back  of  her  desertion. 

The  loss  of  the  Le  Charmant  child  had 
made  no  more  impression  upon  her  sad 
heart  than  any  of  the  ordinary  heart-rend- 
ing stories  of  the  daily  papers  in  its  chil- 
dren's death-list. 

And  now,  having  taken  a  strange  child 
into  her  affections,  she  naturally  put  from 
her  all  disturbing  thoughts,  and  came  back 
to  the  unquestioning  joy  of  loving,  which 
was  as  wine  to  her  starved  heart. 

How  little  or  how  much  Noute  knew, 
no  one  could  surmise.  Poor  Noute  was  a 
strange  mixture.  Some  things  he  knew  in  a 
detached  way,  while  simple  facts,  seeming 
quite  a  part  of  these  things,  found  no  lodg- 
ing in  his  mind.  Perhaps  he  had  never  got- 
ten so  far  along  in  thinking  as  to  need  the 
word  because.  If  he  saw  light  and  shadow, 


126. 


they  were  to  him  only  dark  and  light,  not 
one  existing  because  of  the  other.  And  yet 
he  evidently  knew  some  things  that  surprise 
us.  He  knew  that  the  child  brought  to  the 
boat  on  Mardi-Gras  night  had  worn  clothing 
that  was  laid  aside.  He  knew  where  it  was 
kept,  and  had  stolen  it  and  brought  it  back. 
Exactly  how  much  more  he  knew,  maybe 
some  day  he  might  tell. 


CHAPTER  X 

"  CAN  horses  hear,  Tantine?"  Babette  had 
climbed  upon  the  arm  of  the  doctor's  chair, 
and  sat  with  her  arm  around  his  neck  as, 
turning  towards  madame,  she  asked  the  sim- 
ple question. 

"Can  horses  hear?"  the  doctor  repeated. 
"  Why,  my  dear,  certainly.  Haven't  they 
ears?  God  made  ears  to  hear." 

"  Noute  has  ears,  and  he  can't  hear.  For 
what  did  God  make  Noute's  ears?" 

"Yes,  Noute's  ears  were  made  to  hear,  and 
Uncle's  Tom's  legs  were  made  to  walk.  Un- 
cle Tom's  legs  are  sick  now  and  he  can't  walk. 
Noute's  ears  are  sick." 

"  Why  don't  you  cure  them,  then  ?  You 
are  a  doctor.  You  cured  me  when  I  was 
sick.  You  are  curing  Uncle  Tom's  legs,  and 
he  walks  with  crutches." 

She  slipped  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  his 
lap  as  she  continued,  now  in  a  pleading  tone : 

"  Please  try  to  cure  poor  Noute's  ears.  Just 
think,  he  doesn't  even  know  his  own  name, 


128 


and  when  he  goes  to  heaven  where  he  can 
hear — Tantine  says  he  will  hear  in  heaven — 
he  won't  know  when  the  angels  call  him. 
Even  if  God  made  an  angel  write  it  for  him, 
he  couldn't  read  it.  I  can  read  it  in  print 
letters  like  Tantine  teaches  me,  and  I  am 
only  seven.  And  Clarisse  says  Noute  is  old. 
Many  times  at  night,  when  I  say  my  prayers, 
I  think  about  poor  old  Noute." 

Before  she  had  gotten  from  his  lap  the 
good  old  doctor  had  promised,  while  he 
kissed  her,  to  try  to  open  the  ears  of  Noute 
"  the  foolish." 

Babette  was  nearly  eight  years  old  now. 
It  was  time  she  should  begin  to  study  regu- 
larly from  books.  It  had  been  time  for  a 
year  the  old  people  thought,  but  they  had 
kept  putting  it  off,  and  madame  had  even 
tried  to  teach  her  herself.  This  had  been 
but  a  poor  success,  however,  as  Babette  had 
found  as  many  "  whys  "  to  ask  about  the  let- 
ter A,  for  instance,  as  there  were  characters 
in  the  entire  alphabet,  and  half  of  them 
madame  could  not  answer.  The  simple  act 
of  laying  a  book  upon  her  knee  between  the 
child  she  so  dearly  loved  and  herself  seemed 
to  be  a  declaration  of  war. 


I2Q 

It  was  hard  to  realize  that  the  same  patient, 
loving  hands  that  wrought  the  beautiful  and 
patient  stitches  in  Babette's  numerous  em- 
broidered dresses  were  raised  to  Heaven  in 
utter  despair  a  dozen  times  in  a  fifteen-min- 
utes' reading  or  writing  lesson ;  but  so  it  was 
— not  that  the  little  pupil  was  stupid  or  way- 
ward ;  far  from  it ;  she  seemed  rather  to  be 
too  full  of  ideas.  All  around  the  lesson  they 
would  flutter  like  a  swarm  of  gay  butterflies, 
settling  everywhere,  anywhere,  excepting  on 
the  desired  figure  or  word.  It  was  madden- 
ing. Such  effort  is  always  maddening  to  all 
save  those  favored  ones  who  have  a  gift  at 
this  sort  of  butterfly  catching.  Such  are  the 
real  teachers.  The  others  try  to  drive  them 
away — and  go  mad. 

And  yet,  although  the  question  of  Babette's 
schooling  was  so  serious  a  one  from  every 
point  of  view,  madame  it  was  who  continu- 
ally put  it  off.  It  would  mean  either  the 
coming  in  of  a  governess  or  the  child's  going 
out  to  school.  She  grew  jealous  at  the  bare 
thought  of  either.  It  would  take  her  chire 
Bdbte  out  of  her  arms — figuratively  at  least. 
But  it  could  not  forever  be  averted — and 
Babette  was  growing  so  tall. 

Just  at  the  time  when  madame  and  the 


130 


doctor  were  consulting  together,  casting 
about  for  a  suitable  school  or  teacher,  hoping 
to  find  either  to-morrow  or  next  day — never 
to-day — a  letter  came  to  the  doctor  that  de- 
cided the  matter  for  the  present,  at  least.  It 
would  be  an  experiment,  but  there  was  much 
to  recommend  it. 

The  doctor's  letter  was  from  a  college 
friend  of  his  youth,  now  a  sugar-planter  of 
the  Lafourche  country.  He  had  a  son  whom 
he  wished  to  send  to  New  Orleans  to  com- 
plete his  medical  education.  Would  the 
doctor  interest  himself  in  finding  a  pleasant 
and  safe  home  for  him  ? 

"  He  is  a  fine,  honest  country  lad,"  the 
father  wrote,  "  and  I  hope  to  give  him  the 
educational  advantages  of  your  great  city 
without  exposing  him  to  its  dangers.  He  is 
a  good  English  and  Latin  scholar,  and  would 
be  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  defray  the  cost 
of  the  medical  course  he  has  begun  by  tutor- 
ing, and  I  should  encourage  the  manly  effort 
even  did  my  circumstances  not  demand  it; 
but  you  know  the  war  has  left  us  all  poor. 
My  first  choice  would  be  to  have  him  with 
you,  but  I  do  not  ask  so  much.  Do  with  him 
as  you  think  best." 

What  an  opportunity  for  mutual  advan- 


tage  !  Madame  declared  that  the  letter  was 
a  direct  answer  to  her  prayers. 

Here  was  a  youth — a  gentleman's  son,  of 
whom  his  father  could  say  "  he  is  a  fine, 
honest  lad,"  educated,  ambitious,  anxious  to 
teach — a  stranger  who  would  not  have  heard 
any  possible  gossip,  and  who  would  not  be 
full  of  curiosity.  He  would  believe  what  he 
was  told,  and  that  would  be  an  end  of  it. 
So  much  for  their  share  of  the  benefit. 

For  the  young  man  there  would  be  the 
famous  Dr.  Bondurante  to  superintend  and 
direct  his  studies,  the  free  use  of  an  excep- 
tional library,  a  refined  and  elegant  home. 

At  least,  they  would  try  it.  And  this  is 
how  John  McDonald  came  into  the  house- 
hold of  Dr.  Bondurante. 

He  was  a  tall,  somewhat  awkward,  but  dig- 
nified youth  of  nineteen  years.  His  crisp, 
curling  auburn  hair  and  dark,  direct  eyes 
hinted  of  the  Scotch  ancestry  already  sug- 
gested by  his  name.  Shy  at  first,  reticent, 
yet  quick  and  intelligent — a  gentleman,  car- 
rying in  his  steady  eyes  that  which  bespeaks 
a  fixed  and  high  purpose — is  it  any  wonder 
that  he  was  immediately  liked  and  respected, 
and  soon  loved  by  all  the  household  ? 

He  felt  a  little  timid  in  beginning  his  du- 


132 


ties  as  teacher  to  the  petted  French-talking 
child,  but  he  soon  won  her  affectionate  re- 
spect by  invariable  gentleness,  patience,  and 
firmness,  and  forthwith  became  a  hero  in  her 
eyes — a  hero  with  only  grand  and  stately 
qualities.  And  yet  when  lessons  were  over 
he  would  often  join  in  her  amusements,  until 
it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had  found  a  play- 
fellow. Still,  there  was  a  difference,  for 
while  he  would  sit  with  her  under  the  oak 
and  whittle  a  branch,  cut  from  above  his 
head,  into  some  fantastic  shape  for  her 
amusement,  he  would,  perhaps,  be  explain- 
ing its  beautiful  markings,  the  delicate 
birthday  rings  that  were  traced  in  clear  lines 
from  core  to  bark,  or  how  the  dark  knot 
running  through  it  had  come  from  the  early 
growth  of  a  twig,  to  which  the  rings  had 
adapted  themselves.  Or,  taking  a  micro- 
scope from  his  pocket,  he  would  introduce 
her  to  the  strange,  amusing  families  of  tiny 
creatures  who  had  set  up  house-keeping  and 
started  villages  within  the  peeling  bark. 

Not  a  branch  or  tree  or  fruit  or  flower  but 
had  a  story  to  tell,  though  some  slyly  kept 
half  their  secrets,  and  told  the  rest  only  on 
compulsion. 

Even    a    slab    of    mould    rescued    from 


133 


Noute's  trowel  became,  beneath  John's  mi- 
croscope and  through  his  delightful  talks,  a 
wonder-land  better  than  a  fairy's  wood,  be- 
cause its  inhabitants  were  real,  living,  breath- 
ing, working  creatures.  Its  trees  came  up 
and  grew  and  died.  Its  soil  was  our  own 
earth,  moist  or  dry,  healthy  or  not,  according 
to  the  sun,  the  winds,  the  rain,  scourge,  or 
earthquake — the  last  represented  by  Noute's 
destroying  hand. 

Babette's  little  world,  bounded  by  four 
streets  and  including  but  five  persons  in  its 
community  all  told,  may  seem  rather  small ; 
but  when  John  had  opened  the  doors  of  a 
dozen  wonder-worlds  to  her,  not  counting 
the  history-stories  to  be  traced  out  on  maps 
in  the  big  geography,  she  found  her  ac- 
quaintance widening  day  by  day,  until  it 
was  far  more  extensive  and  interesting  than 
the  gay  circles  of  many  children  who  go  out 
into  the  great  world  and  see  strange  sights 
with  but  half-open  eyes. 

Let  the  boy  who  doubts  this  put  a  good 
microscope  in  his  pocket,  and  the  first 
time  he  treads  on  an  ant-hill  and  recovers 
from  his  first  impulse  to  run — or  even  if  he 
has  run,  let  him  come  back,  turn  his  glass 
into  down- trodden  and  panic-stricken  Ant- 


134 

ville,  and  study  the  inhabitants  for  a  little 
while.  If  he  does  not  come  away  with  a 
more  kindly  feeling  for  the  poor  despised 
little  creatures  than  he  ever  had  before, 
there  will  be  something  wrong  with  the 
boy. 

Babette's  mind  was  soon  as  eager  in  its 
interest  in  all  her  new  studies  as  her  heart 
was  in  its  sympathies. 

John  McDonald's  "  experiment  "  had  very 
soon  proven  a  success. 

And  so  let  us  leave  Babette  awhile  in 
this  happy  atmosphere  of  affection  and  im- 
provement, with  a  devoted  "  aunt "  to  moth- 
er her,  a  doting  "  oncle  "  to  idolize  and  near- 
ly spoil  her,  a  faithful  tutor  to  direct  her 
young  mind  into  channels  of  elevating 
thought,  Noute  to  receive  little  kindnesses 
at  her  hands,  keeping  her  heart  tender 
through  the  blessedness  of  giving — let  us 
leave  her  here,  safe  among  refining  influ- 
ences, as  if  in  answer  to  the  prayers  of  her 
own  people,  while  we  go  in  search  of  those 
who  still  hope  and  pray  that  she  may  some 
day  be  restored  to  their  loving  arms. 

The  Le  Charmants  were  still  living  in 
France.  At  the  end  of  the  first  year — the 


V'ONDERLAND   BETTER   THAN  A   FAIRY'S  WOOD' 


135 


time  originally  set  for  their  return — Colonel 
Le  Charmant  felt  that  to  come  back  would 
be  folly.  His  wife's  health  had  improved, 
the  children  were  all  well  placed  at  the  best 
schools,  and  as  for  his  business  it  had  nev- 
er done  half  so  well  when  represented  by  an 
agent.  And  so,  year  after  year,  they  had 
stayed  until  the  question  of  their  return 
began  to  change  from  "  Why  not  go  ?"  to 
"  Why  go  ?"  Thus  the  years  passed — ten, 
eleven,  twelve,  thirteen.  Two  of  the  daugh- 
ters were  grown  and  married — Clothilde  in 
Paris,  and  the  eldest,  'Toinette,  to  an  Amer- 
ican, who  had  brought  her  back  to  New 
York. 

So  the  family  were  scattered,  and  when 
one  day  Colonel  Le  Charmant  came  home 
and  said,  "  We  must  go  back  '  home  ' — to 
America,"  the  mother,  without  a  word  of  dis- 
agreement or  protest,  willingly  turned  her 
face  towards  the  land  to  which  one  child 
had  already  returned,  and  which  still  held 
the  last  fragmentary  hope  of  yet  recovering 
the  dear  lost  Babette. 

The  old  house  down  in  the  French  quar- 
ter seemed  to  wake  from  a  thirteen  years' 
sleep  on  the  day  the  news  came  to  prepare 
for  the  family. 


136 


Passers  along  the  street,  who  had  grown 
accustomed  to  its  blank,  expressionless  front, 
were  startled  one  morning  to  see  the  banis- 
ters along  the  broad  galleries  hung  with 
rugs  and  mats,  while  a  yellow  woman,  her 
head  tied  up  in  a  towel,  energetically 
mopped  the  cobwebs  from  transoms  and 
ceilings.  The  old  home  was  waking  up, 
wiping  its  eyes  after  a  long  sleep,  shaking 
itself  and  stretching. 

When,  three  weeks  later,  two  carriages 
rolled  up  to  its  gate  one  evening,  it  was 
wide-awake,  washed  and  combed,  and  in  cos- 
tume de  rigueur  for  the  occasion. 

As  one  looked  at  its  brightly  lighted  win- 
dows, it  seemed  all  eyes  to  greet  the  re- 
turned—  all  arms  to  embrace  them,  as  he 
glanced  at  its  broad  open  balcony  and  stair- 
way. 

A  rushing,  jabbering,  laughing,  weeping 
lot  of  cousins — cousins  to  the  most  distant 
remove — flocked  out  to  the  gate  to  receive 
them,  followed  by  a  troop  of  old  family  ser- 
vants, with  their  children  and  grandchil- 
dren— black,  brown,  yellow,  tan ;  turbaned, 
aproned,  befl owered,  and  befeathered  —  the 
younger  standing  timidly  back,  while  the 
older  ones  clasped  the  waists  and  knees  of 


137 


the  mother  and  grandmother,  or,  gathering 
up  the  children  bodily,  carried  them  into 
the  house. 

These  last  were  of  the  turbaned  sort,  who 
still  don  their  white  aprons  for  full-dress  oc- 
casions, and  simply  tie  an  extra  frill  into 
their  tignons  and  polish  their  hoop  earrings 
for  a  christening  or  wedding. 

Excepting  the  few  who  had  been  sum- 
moned back  "  home"  to  anticipate  their  re- 
turn, the  crowd  of  servants  were  living  about, 
mainly  in  the  service  of  the  Le  Charmant 
connection.  But  that  did  not  hinder  their 
coming  for  this  important  and  exciting  occa- 
sion to  swell  the  welcoming  group.  And 
they  would  all  drop  in  again  from  time  to 
time  after  the  arrival  of  the  trunks,,  and  not 
one  would  find  herself  forgotten. 

But  what  a  time  there  was  to-night !  What 
a  babel ! 

Arthe,  who  promised  to  be  the  runt  of  the 
family,  had  shot  up  like  an  Easter  lily,  until 
her  flower-like  face  turned  itself  down  in  the 
same  fashion  as  the  flower,  as  she  bent  to 
kiss  her  cousin  Fifine,  born  the  same  day. 
Marie  and  another  cousin  were  placed  back 
to  back  to  measure  the  advantage  gained 
on  either  side. 


138 


The  old  pencil-marks,  with  the  names  an- 
nexed, were  found  on  the  library  door-facing, 
and  the  mother  ran  with  a  merry  face  to 
compare  heights  with  the  long-ago  measure- 
ments. Nobody  seemed  to  have  stood  quite 
still.  Maman  was  "just  a  weeny  bit  taller" 
than  the  old  mark.  "  Ah,  but  her  heels  were 
higher!"  "  G'an  "  had  grown  down-hill. 

It  was  great  fun,  and  yet,  while  she  laid  a 
book  above  the  young  heads  as  they  pre- 
sented themselves,  the  mother's  face  lost  its 
merry  smile,  and  a  quiet  pallor  took  its  place 
when,  having  measured  the  last  applicant, 
she  turned  sadly  away. 

Away  down,  lower  than  the  rest,  against  a 
dimly  pencilled  line,  she  had  found  written  in 
clear  letters,  "  Babette." 

Early  the  next  morning  the  children  — 
children  still,  though  several  topped  their 
handsome  mother  by  a  "so-much" — were 
out  of  bed,  wandering  about  the  grounds,  in- 
vestigating— noting  the  changes  of  the  years. 

The  magnolia- trees,  with  all  their  stately 
growth,  had  kept  young,  polished,  and  mod- 
ern ;  the  crepe-myrtles,  remembered  as  blush- 
ing as  pink-cheeked  school-girls,  had  taken  to 
themselves  long  gray  beards,  through  which 


139 


the  coral  bloom  showed  here  and  there  like 
toothless  gums ;  the  rose-vines  had  climbed, 
and  the  orange-trees  died. 

The  older  children  remember  these  things, 
and  the  younger  ones,  listening,  think  they 
do.  Even  the  two  born  in  France  begin,  in 
a  few  days,  to  "  remember  "  various  things 
about  the  old  home,  much  to  the  amusement 
of  the  entire  family. 

The  home-coming  is  only  a  gala  occasion 
for  the  children,  but  for  the  mother  and 
grandmother,  following  them  from  place  to 
place  with  subdued  smiles  and  a  languid  in- 
terest, it  is  full  of  reminders,  in  every  nook 
and  corner,  of  the  little  lost  one,  whose  name 
neither  has  found  courage  to  speak. 

Thirteen  years  have  whitened  the  mother's 
hair,  and  her  quiet,  sweet  face  tells  its  own 
story  of  submission  and  trust. 

It  is  a  time  of  diversion  and  new  interests 
for  all. 

The  parlors  are  faded,  dingy,  and  old-fash- 
ioned ;  they  must  be  renovated.  The  house 
needs  a  new  room  here — a  balcony  must  be 
added  there. 

While  they  readjust  themselves  to  the  old 
home  and  its  conditions,  let  us  leave  them, 
and  go  back  to  the  iron  gate  of  Dr.  Bondu- 


140 


rante  —  "but  a  stone's-throw  away,"  as  one 
might  say. 

Our  heart  gives  a  bound,  and  we  wonder 
what  have  been  the  changes  of  the  eight 
years  that  have  passed  since  we  took  leave 
of  the  happy  circle  within,  while  with  un- 
steady fingers  we  raise  the  heavy  knocker, 
and  it  falls  with  a  ringing  clank! 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  sound  of  the  old  knocker  is  as  start- 
ling as  the  voice  of  a  friend  heard  after  a 
long  absence. 

While  a  host  of  misty  pictures  of  the  past 
rise  before  us  at  its  sound,  and  we  wait  with 
trembling  heart  for  the  appearance  of  an  ex- 
pected form  or  face,  a  subtile  odor  comes 
from  the  old  garden  like  a  breath.  It  brings 
so  keen  a  sense  of  the  real  presence  of  scenes 
dear  and  familiar  that  we  almost  hope  to 
see  the  picturesque  little  figure  of  Babette, 
in  flowing  hair  and  long  pantalets,  tripping 
across  the  yard  as  of  old. 

The  breath  is  the  garden's  own.  In  it  are 
the  pollen -dusts  of  a  half-dozen  flowering 
vines ;  the  pungent  fragrance  of  coral  mag- 
nolia seed — one  crushed  here  and  there  by 
a  passing  foot ;  the  leathery  smell  of  the 
tanned  flower-leaves  curling  in  rolls  upon  the 
dank  grass,  amid  a  waste  of  odorous  pollen- 
tipped  "  matches"  from  the  cone-heart  of  the 
fallen  blossoms.  Clumps  of  freckled  pump- 


142 


kin-colored  tiger-lilies  give  prodigally  to  both 
bee  and  air  of  their  mustard  hearts,  and 
masses  of  violets  cluster  along  shaded  bor- 
ders. There  is  the  odor  of  the  swinging 
moss,  and  the  suspended  wasp-nest  contrib- 
utes its  musty  danger- smell.  Adown  the 
walks  an  occasional  tiny  heap  of  newly  cut 
grass  is  topped  by  a  fresh  slab  of  mould,  emit- 
ting its  earthy  breath,  and  inviting  the  spar- 
row to  dine  on  its  panic-stricken  inhabitants. 

We  recognize  the  same  old  pattern  of  the 
bricklayer's  fancy  along  the  walks,  outlined 
in  a  flat  green  ribbon  of  closely  clipped  co- 
coa-grass, while  an  occasional  shoot  holds 
up  a  defiant  pair  of  blades,  recalling  the  old 
woman  who  would  say  "  scissors." 

There  are  changes  in  the  house's  front. 
Two  great  windows  have  opened  through 
the  solid  wall  of  ivy  on  its  parlor  side,  and 
from  the  narrow  opening  between  its  bowed 
shutters  fleecy  curtains  of  snowy  lace  float  in 
and  out  in  the  breeze.  The  tall  white  urns 
guarding  the  front  steps  have  given  up  their 
volunteer  crops  of  purslane  and  golden-rod, 
and  are  aglow  with  scarlet  geraniums  and 
trailing  garlands  of  money -wort.  The  old 
doctor's  arm-chair  has  disappeared  from  the 
balcony. 


143 

How  quickly  the  eye  takes  in  all  these 
things,  recognizing  familiar  features,  and 
noting  the  changes  far  more  quickly  than 
one  is  able  to  recount  them. 

The  echo  of  the  knocker  seems  still  in 
our  ears  when  the  front  door  opens  and  the 
blinking  face  of  Noute  appears.  Turning 
back  as  he  sees  us,  he  seizes  a  card-tray,  and 
as  he  comes  forward  now  and  opens  the  gate 
he  presents  it  with  the  explanation  that 
"  No  one  may  come  in  to-day.  Madame  is 
no  better.  Everybody  is  asked  to  leave  a 
card." 

Noute  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  is  hearing,  and 
has  spoken  ;  and  now,  in  answer  to  further 
inquiry,  he  goes  on  to  say : 

"  Oh  yas,  Mamzelle  Bebee  is  dhere,  and 
me  an'  Clarisse,  and  anudder  woman — a  sick- 
nurse — and  of  course  Dr.  McDonald — " 

"And  the  doctor—?" 

"  Ah  yes,  certainly,  Dr.  McDonald  and  an- 
udder, and  some  days  still  anudder  comes — " 

"  But  Dr.  Bondurante  ?" 

"  Dr.  Bondurante  !  Ah-h-h  !"  Tears  start 
afresh,  and  are  quickly  bestowed  along  the 
length  of  his  sleeve,  as  he  exclaims,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Bondurante  household,  under 
pressure  of  emotion,  "Ah-h-h!  Poor  Dr. 


144 


Bondurante!  Since  free — "  (three  weeks 
or  three  years,  he  is  not  sure  which)  "  Dr. 
Bondurante,  he  is  dead ;  or,  maybe,  it  is  t'ree 
months  yet.  Mamzelle  B£b6e  was  so  high ; 
to-day  she  stands —  And  Noute  the 
"  foolish  "  raises  his  hand  from  his  first  low 
measurement  in  a  wavering,  uncertain  way, 
indicating  Babette's  supposed  height,  now 
even  with  his  own  chin,  now  at  his  nose's 
tip,  and  now  between  the  two. 

"  I  t'ink  it  is  t'ree  weeks  past,"  he  con- 
tinues, after  a  moment  of  blinking  uncer- 
tainty, "  or,  maybe,  t'ree  mont's.  T'ree 
times  de  yellow  roses  come  since.  He  was 
asleep  in  de  swing." 

Poor  Noute's  wandering  efforts  at  expla- 
nation are  unsatisfactory  and  puzzling — nay, 
more,  they  are  painful. 

As  we  turn  away,  our  eyes  fall  for  the  first 
time  upon  a  bright  sign  on  the  left  side  of 
the  gate.  It  is  so  near  that  we  start  upon 
discovering  it  almost  against  our  shoulder. 
"  Dr.  John  McDonald  "  is  its  simple  inscrip- 
tion. Only  a  doctor's  sign,  nothing  more, 
and  yet  it  tells  a  new  chapter  in  our  story. 

An  aged  shopkeeper,  a  hunchback,  who 
lives  directly  across  the  street,  tells  us  the 
rest. 


145 

Needless  to  say  his  native  tongue  is 
French — he  is  a  Creole — and  having  said 
this,  still  more  superfluous  is  it  to  add  that 
he  is  polite  and  kindly. 

"Since  t'ree  years  pass,"  he  begins,  draw- 
ing out  a  stool  and  offering  it,  "  the  old  doc- 
tor went  one  day  to  sleep  in  his  hammock. 
When  they  found  him  it  was  the  month  of 
Mary,  and  yellow  lady-bank  roses  lay  one 
over  another  on  all  the  vines,  and  the  flow- 
ers Mamzelle  Bebe"e  had  laid  in  his  arms  were 
yet  fresh. 

"  Mamzelle  Bebe"e  was  not  there  when  they 
went  to  wake  him.  She  had  gone  an  hour 
before  with  Ma'am  McDonald — the  mother 
to  the  young  Dr.  McDonald — to  the  La- 
fourche  country.  Only  one  yellow -fever 
case  was  reported  at  the  quarantine,  and 
they  sent  mamzelle  away,  so  much  afraid, 
remembering  how  it  robbed  them  before. 

"  When  she  ran  to  tell  her  uncle  good-bye 
he  was  asleep,  and  she  did  not  wake  him, 
only  filled  his  arms  with  the  flowers,  and, 
kissing  his  hair,  left  him  so.  The  flowers 
would  tell  him  she  had  said  good-bye,  arid 
she  would  soon  be  back.  This  was  at  the 
end  of  May  only,  and  yet  Ma'am  Bondu- 
rante  would  not  let  mamzelle  come  home 


until  the  frost.  Tree  times  they  have  sent 
her  there,  and  every  time  she  goes  and 
comes  she  is  prettier  than  the  last  time,  and 
sweeter.  When  this  time  she  came  back 
to  find  the  doctor  gone — they  never  wrote 
her  of  his  death  —  madame  was  afraid  if 
she  grieved  she  might  be  ill ;  but  when 
she  came  and  saw  madame  alone,  and  so 
changed  and  sad,  she  said  she  would  never 
leave  her  again.  And  she  has  kept  her 
word. 

"  Ma'am  Bondurante  is  never  the  same 
since  then,  and  but  for  mamzelle  they  say 
she  would  not  be  here  now.  Tis  true  mam- 
zelle is  her  niece,  but  many  daughters  are 
not  so  loving.  And  she  is  so  beautiful — so 
good  to  the  poor  ! 

"  Everyw'ere  you  see  the  little  old  lady 
walk — along  the  galcric,  through  the  yard 
—  mamzelle  is  walking  by  her  side,  holding 
her  arm  maybe,  or  laughing.  They  are  like 
two  morning-glories — madame  of  yesterday's 
blooming,  shrivelled  and  old  ;  mamzelle,  ris- 
ing above  her,  as  a  dew-tipped  flower  just 
expanded  and  catching  the  first  sun. 

"  Ah,  well !  We  will  see  them  so  never 
again,  I  believe.  So  the  nurse,  Madelaine, 
she  tells  me.  To-day,  or  to-morrow  at  the 


, 


•BUT   FOR   MAMZELLE   THEY   SAY  SHE   WOULD    NOT   BE 
HERE   NOW" 


147 

latest,  she  will  pass.  And  mamzelle,  they 
say  she  will  be  the  heir.  She  deserves  it, 
yes — if  she  got  twice  more  yet.  Same  as 
mother  and  father — and,  like  I  said,  better 
than  many — she  loved  that  old  aunt  and 
uncle. 

"And  Dr.  McDonald?  Ask  the  neigh- 
borhood. Everybody,  black  and  w'ite,  love 
to  see  him  pass  in  and  out.  And  many  fine 
positions  he  has  refuse  in  the  '  Charity 
Hospital/  the  'Hotel  Dieu.'  And  in  other 
cities,  even,  they  want  him.  But  he  will 
not  leave  Ma'am  Bondurante  and  mamzelle. 
But  he  has  plenty  practice.  Even  the  old 
doctors  send  for  him.  He  makes  a  great 
deal  of  money ;  mats,  he  gives  half  away. 
If  he  and  mamzelle — of  course  everybody's 
business  is  for  himself;  but  if  only  he  and 
mamzelle  —  it  would  be  a  pretty  match. 
They  are  a  beautiful  pair  when  they  stand 
together  in  the  garden — she,  so  dark,  so 
laughing,  always  making  fun  ;  he,  tall,  fair, 
serious.  If  only  the  old  people  could  have 
lived  to  see  that !" 

The  garrulous  old  dealer  in  paper  flowers, 
holy  candles,  rosaries,  and  "  religious  articles  " 
in  general,  would  have  talked  all  day  to  a 
patient  listener. 


I48 


These  were,  indeed,  trying  times  for  Ba- 
bette;  and  when  she  had  at  last,  a  few  days 
later,  returned  from  the  funeral  of  her  bene- 
factress to  the  great  silent  house,  she  felt 
lonely  indeed.  But  she  was  not  friendless, 
even  though  her  circle  was  small.  John 
had  been  kind  and  thoughtful  all  the  way 
through;  and  now,  when  she  had  given  Cla- 
risse  her  bonnet  and  wrap,  and  was  turning 
to  go  into  her  own  room,  she  was  surprised 
with  a  new  evidence  of  his  thoughtfulness. 

As  soon  as  he  had  realized  that  the  end 
was  near,  he  had  sent  for  his  mother  to 
come,  and  fearing  lest  Babette  should  be  dis- 
turbed with  preparations  for  her  entertain- 
ment, he  had  said  nothing  of  it  to  her. 

Mrs.  McDonald,  with  whom  she  had  spent 
several  happy  summers,  was  her  dearest 
friend.  If  she  had  been  told  to  ask  for  the 
one  thing  in  the  world  that  would  comfort 
her  in  her  great  sorrow,  it  would  have  been 
to  have  this  friend  come  to  her  now. 

And  here  she  was.  She  had  come  while 
they  were  away.  With  hands  affectionately 
extended,  but  with  her  sweet  and  womanly 
face  as  serene  as  always,  in  dark  days  as  in 
bright,  she  came  forward  to  meet  her;  and 
when  John  came  in,  a  moment  afterwards, 


149 


and  found  them  quietly  talking  together,  he 
knew  that  her  coming  had  been  a  blessing. 

Babette  had  been  through  a  long  and 
weary  experience,  and  for  a  week  after  Mrs. 
McDonald  came  she  kept  her  bed.  This  long 
rest  and  quiet,  with  kind  and  cheerful  atten- 
tion from  the  entire  household,  was  her  best 
restorative.  Noute,  always  anxious  when 
any  one  was  ill,  was  all  attention  now.  The 
poor  fellow,  with  only  his  poor  half-wit  to 
help  him  to  an  understanding  of  things,  had 
nevertheless  made  some  progress.  He  had 
learned  that  he  was  not  to  be  sent  away,  and 
that  when  Mamzelle  Bebee  had  gone  away  in 
the  summer-time,  she  had  come  back  again. 

He  would  even  go  himself  on  an  errand 
into  the  street.  Indeed,  in  the  depth  of  his 
trousers  pocket  Noute  had,  for  some  years, 
carried  the  front-gate  key.  The  day  the  old 
doctor  gave  it  to  him  was  probably  the 
proudest  in  his  whole  life.  The  first  use  he 
made  of  it  was  to  go  out,  lock  the  gate  after 
himself,  take  a  walk  up  and  down  the  square, 
or  rather  a  run,  ending  with  several  somer- 
saults, and  then  to  unlock  the  gate  again  and 
come  in,  grinning  with  delight.  This  per- 
formance he  repeated  daily,  until  the  free- 
dom of  the  gate  had  become  a  familiar  hon- 


150 


or,  and  he  could  accept  it  calmly,  standing 
with  the  key  in  his  hand  in  the  open  gate. 
After  a  time,  however,  even  this  had  lost  its 
novelty.  Life  and  its  interests  were  inside 
the  enclosure,  and  the  key  lay  quietly  in  his 
pocket,  to  be  used  when  necessary. 

Noute  was  never  anxious  about  the  fut- 
ure. He  did  not  ask  himself,  as  did  every 
other  member  of  the  household,  what  Babette 
would  do,  now  that  she  was  alone.  He  only 
knew  each  day  that  "  to-day  "  she  was  lying 
in  bed — not  strong  enough  to  be  up — and  so 
" to-day"  for  him  was  spoiled.  He  could 
bring  flowers  to  her  door  and  ice-water,  or 
the  morning  paper,  or  he  could  beg  Clarisse 
to  fix  a  glass  of  orange-flower  syrup  for  him 
to  take  to  her,  and  between  times  he  could  sit 
outside  her  door  on  the  floor  and  think — and 
blink — and  wait. 

While  there  had  been  other  illnesses  in  the 
family,  Noute  had  been  ever  willing  and  anx- 
ious to  serve ;  but  when  not  needed  in  the 
house  he  would  seize  his  trowel  and  go  out 
to  fight  the  cocoa-grass  in  the  garden. 

During  Babette's  illness  the  cocoa-grass 
had  things  its  own  way,  and  straightway 
proceeded  to  fence  off  every  brick  from  its 
neighbor. 


For  a  whole  week  Noute  sat  at  Babette's 
door,  and  on  the  day  she  finally  appeared, 
dressed  and  apparently  well  again,  he  went 
through  his  usual  gymnastic  performances 
up  and  down  the  back  yard,  and  then,  seizing 
his  trowel,  quietly  went  back  to  his  work  at 
the  cocoa-grass. 

Life  had  begun  again.  At  the  end  of  a 
second  week  it  was  necessary  for  Mrs.  Mc- 
Donald to  return  to  her  home,  and,  by  the  phy- 
sician's  advice,  Babette  consented  to  go  with 
her  for  a  short  time.  The  entire  change  of  air 
and  scene  would  bring  back  the  roses  to  her 
cheeks,  and  when  she  should  be  quite  strong 
again  she  would  think  of  her  future.  For  the 
present  John  remained  in  the  home,  retain- 
ing his  office  in  the  doctor's  study  as  before. 

It  was  not  many  days  before  the  hunch- 
back's words  regarding  the  property  proved 
to  be  true.  Indeed,  his  name  was  found 
signed  as  one  of  the  witnesses  to  the  brief 
will  which  John  found  among  some  papers 
committed  to  his  keeping,  to  be  opened  only 
after  Madame  Bondurante's  death.  This 
paper,  drawn  up  by  herself,  simply  and  un- 
equivocally left  everything  to  her  "beloved 
niece,  Marie  Bondurante."  This  John  wrote 
her  as  soon  as  he  discovered  it ;  but  Babette 


152 


was  troubled  by  thoughts  that  no  one 
knew. 

The  only  respect  in  which  her  beloved 
Tantine  had  ever  seemed  unkind  to  her  or 
inconsiderate  was  in  a  certain  reticence  as  to 
her  relationship.  Babette  was  quite  small 
when  she  discovered  that  any  questions 
about  her  own  parentage  brought  a  sad  ex- 
pression to  her  aunt's  face,  and  that  these 
questions  were  answered  only  when  pressed. 
And  sometimes — she  had  tried  to  think  her- 
self mistaken — sometimes  the  reluctant  an- 
swers, given  at  long  intervals,  did  not  quite 
agree.  Indeed,  the  poor  old  lady  had  more 
than  once  repeated  them  in  the  confessional 
— but  even  here  only  as  abstract  sins. 

Long  before  the  doctor's  death  Babette 
had  often  resolved  to  make  a  serious  appeal 
for  the  whole  truth,  but  the  very  suspicion 
of  mystery  had  made  it  hard  to  do.  Then, 
when  the  old  lady  began  to  fail  in  health,  it 
had  been  quite  impossible  to  distress  her. 

And  so  she  had  died,  and  Babette  was 
quite  alone,  knowing  only  that  there  was 
concerning  herself  a  painful  mystery.  She 
hoped  that  possibly  the  will  would  explain 
things.  Her  name  betrayed  nothing.  The 
doctor  and  his  wife  were,  she  knew,  distant 


153 


cousins.  Both  were  Bondurantes.  Had  her 
father  or  mother — or  both — offended  and 
been  cast  out  of  the  family  record?  It  was 
very  strange.  She  was  sure,  moreover,  that 
there  was  a  period  of  her  life  with  which 
both  her  aunt  and  uncle  were  unfamiliar. 
She  was  greatly  troubled  now,  her  last  hope 
having  failed.  The  will  had  told  nothing. 
She  was  coming  into  a  fortune  through  a 
doubtful  relationship,  and  the  subject  preyed 
upon  her  mind  until  she  resolved  to  write  to 
John  about  it. 

To  no  human-  soul  had  she  ever  hinted 
her  unhappiness  before.  Her  pride  had  kept 
her  silent  even  when  she  was  a  child,  but 
now  she  felt  that  she  must  have  advice,  and 
perhaps  aid,  in  unravelling  her  life's  secret. 
Her  first  impulse  naturally  led  her  to  con- 
fide in  him  who  had  been  beside  her,  first  as 
teacher,  and  then  as  counsellor  and  friend, 
during  nine  long  and  happy  years. 

And  so  the  letter  was  written — a  long  and 
detailed  account  of  her  life,  so  far  as  she 
knew  it,  with  all  the  little  discrepancies  in 
the  story  as  told  her,  all  her  misgivings,  and 
her  own  detached  and  imperfect  memories 
upon  which  many  of  them  were  founded. 
She  even  told  him  about  the  mysterious 


154 


bundle  of  clothing.  She  held  back  noth- 
ing. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  before  this  letter  reached  John 
McDonald,  something  happened  at  the  home- 
stead to  confirm  his  own  suspicion  that  there 
was  another  story  of  Babette's  life  back  of 
the  one  commonly  believed.  He,  too,  had 
innocently  asked  one  or  two  natural/  ques- 
tions when  he  first  came  to  live  at  the  Bon- 
durantes',  and  then  he  had  learned  to  keep 
silent. 

While  he  sat  reading  as  usual  in  his  office 
this  evening,  Noute  squatted  in  his  favorite 
position  flat  upon  the  floor  against  the  wall, 
hugging  his  knees  and  talking  to  himself. 
This  had  been  his  habit  ever  since  he  had 
learned  the  use  of  his  tongue,  and  John 
would  not  have  noticed  it  had  he  not  heard 
the  name,  "  Mamzelle  B£b6e,"  repeated  at  in- 
tervals. It  was  impossible  that  John  should 
not  listen  alertly,  hearing  this  name.  No 
one,  not  even  the  girl  herself,  knew  any  oth- 
er than  the  name  to  which  she  had  awak- 
ened in  the  Bondurante  home.  She  was  to 
herself  only,  as  to  others,  "  Marie  Bondu- 
rante," familiarly  known  as  Btfbte. 

Noute's  talk,  even  when  not  embarrassed 


155 

by  the  consciousness  of  a  listener,  was  ram- 
bling, and  his  sentences  disconnected.  Noute 
the  foolish  of  old  was  Noute  the  foolish 
still.  It  was  hard  to  make  anything  of  talk 
like  this: 

"Rain  come  down — wind  blow,  Z-z-z! 
Gate  fly  open — bang  !  Old  devil  shoot  in- 
side with  Mamzelle  Bebee !" 

This  seemed  to  give  him  special  pleasure, 
for  he  repeated  it  over  and  over  with  slight 
variations,  always  laughing  with  delight  at 
the  end  of  the  recital. 

After  listening  awhile,  John  raised  his 
head  and  began  to  question  him.  Nothing 
could  have  pleased  the  simple-minded  fellow 
better  than  this.  He  began  the  story  over 
again ;  and  this  time  he  commenced  by  saying: 

"Mamzelle  is  so  big" — he  raised  his  hand 
even  with  the  door-knob.  "  She  is  burning 
sick.  The  old  devil  run  with  her  in  the  rain 
— in  the  wind.  It  is  cold.  I  run  behind — 
watch  where  she  go  —  the  big  gate  comes 
open — I  shove  her  in,  so — bang!" 

Rising  now  and  throwing  himself  forward, 
he  imitated  the  motion  of  pushing  the  old 
gypsy  into  the  gate.  Noute,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, was  the  only  living  person  who 
had  ever  known  how  she  had  gotten  in.  It 


1 56 


seemed  an  improbable  story — and  it  was  very 
incomplete  —  and  yet,  coming  just  at  this 
time,  immediately  after  Babette's  letter,  it 
seemed  to  confirm  his  fears.  There  was  sure- 
ly a  strange  mystery  connected  with  her  life. 

If  Noute  knew  anything  of  value  to  the 
story,  he  did  not  have  the  knowledge  on 
demand.  He  did  not  even  seem  to  know 
when,  in  describing  this  incident,  a  new  item 
tumbled  into  it,  as  if  by  accident,  or  that  the 
whole  recital  had  any  serious  meaning. 

After  thinking  over  the  matter,  and  fail- 
ing to  get  anything  coherent  from  Noute, 
John  resolved  to  try  Clarisse. 

"  What  was  the  first  name  of  mademoi- 
selle's father,  Clarisse  ?"  he  asked  next  morn- 
ing, scanning  her  face  covertly  as  he  did  so. 

Clarisse  started  nervously  at  the  question, 
rolled  her  eyes  and  crossed  herself,  as  she 
answered  : 

"  Me,  I  don'  know  nuthing  't  all  about  it, 
M'sieu  Jean.  God  knows,  Mamzelle  is  one 
sweet,  sweet  young  lady  ;  but  for  such  as 
dat,  I  know  nuthing'  V  all  about  it  /" 

And  the  very  vehemence  with  which  she 
denied  all  knowledge  proved  beyond  a 
doubt  that  she  did  know  something  which 
she  would  not  tell. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  more  John  pondered  over  the  sub- 
ject, the  more  convinced  he  became  that  Ba- 
bette's  life  held  a  carefully  guarded  secret. 
Those  who  loved  her  best  had  kept  it  sa- 
credly. Would  it  be  wise  for  her  welfare  or 
happiness  to  oppose  his  judgment  to  theirs, 
and  to  advise  her  to  seek  an  explanation  ? 
Would  it  not  be  better,  seeing  that  in  ev- 
erything else  they  had  shown  their  devo- 
tion, to  assume  that  they  had  acted  with  af- 
fectionate wisdom  in  this,  and  to  accept  the 
situation  without  question  ?  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  it  possible  for  a  proud  and 
sensitive  girl  to  rest  contentedly  in  a  doubt- 
ful position,  not  knowing  her  own  parentage 
even,  when,  by  prompt  effort,  it  might  be 
possible  to  discover  the  truth  ? 

His  position  as  adviser  was  a  hard  one. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  even  if  he  had 
had  only  a  casual  interest  in  Babette  ;  but  her 
happiness  meant  much  to  him,  and  he  feared 
the  effect  of  some  possible,  painful  discov- 


I58 


ery  about  herself.  This  was  why  his  answer 
to  her  letter  advised  her — very  much  against 
his  own  inclination,  for  he  longed  to  know 
the  truth — to  trust  her  happiness  to  those 
who  had  loved  her  rather  than  risk  it  by  op- 
posing them.  He  dared  not  advise  other- 
wise, and  yet  in  his  heart  he  almost  hoped 
she  would  take  the  other  course.  There 
was  information  within  reach.  Clarisse  could 
give  it  if  she  would.  Perhaps  she  could 
explain  Noute's  incoherent  and  mysterious 
recitals,  which  undoubtedly  hinted  a  true 
story. 

Babette  received  John's  letter  just  as  she 
and  Mrs.  McDonald  were  preparing  to  re- 
turn to  the  city.  And  so  it  was  not  an- 
swered ;  and  John  did  not  know,  until  he 
saw  her  again,  that  his  advice  had  only  giv- 
en her  pain. 

"  I  am  not  seeking  for  happiness,"  she 
said,  sadly,  as  she  stood  beside  him  in  the 
old  office ;  "  I  want  simply  to  know  the 
truth.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  must 
act  for  myself,  and  I  must  begin  with  an 
honest  understanding  of  my  position — if  I 
can." 

Finding  her  mind  fully  decided,  John  then 
told  her  all  he  knew.  But  she  had  already 


159 

resolved  to  try  to  find  out  some  clew  to 
things  from  Noute.  That  he  was  associated 
in  some  way  with  the  unknown  period  of 
her  life  she  felt  sure.  She  even  seemed  to 
remember  him  upon  a  sea-shore  with  strange 
people.  He  had  brought  her  shells  and  peb- 
bles, confirming  this  impression.  And  then 
there  was  the  mysterious  bundle  of  clothing. 
Perhaps  if  he  should  see  this  again,  it  would 
help  him  to  recall  the  past. 

Babette  had  not  told  Mrs.  McDonald  of 
her  secret.  It  was  too  sacred,  too  terrible 
a  thing  to  confide  to  any  one  beside  the  one 
friend  who  had  shared  all  her  joys  and  sor- 
rows since  her  childhood  —  all,  excepting 
this,  which  had,  until  now,  been  only  a  sleep- 
ing, half -confessed  sorrow.  As  soon  as  it 
had  taken  shape  as  a  definite  trouble,  she 
had  told  him  all  about  it,  and  he  had  prom- 
ised to  help  her. 

It  was  some  time  before  an  opportunity 
came  to  speak  with  Noute  without  fear  of 
interruption.  She  wanted  John  to  be  pres- 
ent, so  that  he  could  carefully  note  every 
word  and  help  her  to  draw  conclusions  ;  or, 
perhaps,  he  would  put  a  timely  question  to 
the  simple-minded  fellow  that  would  draw 
out  some  new  revelation. 


i6o 


It  was  Mrs.  McDonald's  habit  to  take  a 
nap  in  the  afternoons,  but  this  was  the  time 
Clarisse  usually  pottered  about  the  house, 
setting  things  to  rights  by  a  touch  here  and 
there,  and  seeming  to  be  everywhere  at  once. 

It  took  a  little  manoeuvring  on  Babette's 
part  to  engage  the  old  woman  in  the  back 
part  of  the  house,  pressing  over  some  dresses 
which  she  would  probably  never  wear,  while 
she  called  Noute  into  the  office  where  John 
was  already  waiting,  and  prepared,  with  beat- 
ing heart,  for  the  cross-examination  whose 
result  no  one  could  foretell. 

"Come,  Noute,  and  tell  me  where  you  got 
this,"  she  said,  by  way  of  introduction,  as  she 
laid  the  little  bundle  of  clothing  upon  the 
table. 

Noute  sprang  to  his  feet  with  delight 
at  sight  of  the  familiar  parcel,  and  seizing 
it,  threw  it  upon  the  bookcase.  Then  he 
slipped  out  of  the  door,  and  returned  in  a 
moment,  creeping  on  all -fours  and  looking 
anxiously  about  him  as  if  fearing  detection. 
Then,  stealthily  climbing  up  and  stealing  the 
bundle,  he  hid  it  in  his  bosom  and  retreated 
to  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  he  began 
going  through  the  motions  of  shifting  sail 
and  guiding  a  boat.  Finally,  after  a  series  of 


quick  movements,  he  ran  up  to  Babette,  laid 
the  bundle  at  her  feet,  and  rolled  over  on  the 
floor,  laughing. 

Noute's  words  came  slowly,  and  when  his 
mind  moved  with  rapidity  he  seemed  to  find 
more  fluent  expression  in  his  old  habit  of 
gesticulation.  He  had  illustrated  his  steal- 
ing the  clothing  from  the  rafters  in  Nick's 
shed-room,  the  journey  across  the  water,  and, 
finally,  his  bringing  it  to  Babette. 

It  was  not  bad  acting  to  illustrate  a  story 
already  known,  but  how  little  it  told  of  the 
one  they  were  seeking  to  discover !  Even 
when  Noute  was  induced  to  answer  ques- 
tions his  words  were  often  misleading,  and 
always  inadequate. 

What,  for  instance,  could  be  more  unsatis- 
factory than  this  list  of  items,  which  were 
written  upon  John's  memorandum  when  the 
conference  was  over  ? 

"  Clothes  found  '  in  the  wood.' 

"  '  The  devil '  put  them  there. 

"  '  The  devil '  was  a  woman. 

"  She  was  '  old.' 

"  She  was  '  ugly.' 

"  She  was  '  not  all  bad — some  good.' 

"  She  '  made  Mamzelle  Beb£e  some  tea.' 

"  She  walked  '  like  this '  (limping). 


1 62 


"  There  were  '  one,  three,  five,  eight,  nine 
little  devils  by  the  water.' 

" '  One  was  sleeping  in  Mamzelle  B£beVs 
bed,  and  he  threw  her  out.' 

"  '  The  devil  carried  Mamzelle  in  the  rain.' 

"  He  '  pushed  her  in  the  gate.' 

"  And  he  '  took  the  old  devil  back  home 
in  the  boat.'  " 

Such  was  the  hopeless  testimony. 

When  Noute  had  known  the  gypsy  woman, 
names  had  meant  nothing  to  him.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  when  he  called  her  "  the  old  devil  " 
he  meant  no  special  harm.  His  language- 
teachers  had  been  principally  Uncle  Tom 
and  Clarisse,  to  whom  all  poor  and  miserable 
creatures  were  "  poor  devils." 

Having  failed  to  get  any  satisfaction  from 
Noute,  Babette  resolved  to  try  Clarisse. 
She  was  determined  that  the  old  woman 
should  tell  what  she  knew,  but  how  to  ap- 
proach her  was  the  question.  Babette  was 
really  fond  of  her  in  a  certain  way,  and  had 
never  had  occasion  to  doubt  her  affection  for 
herself.  While  she  hesitated  as  to  the  man- 
ner of  her  appeal  fortune  favored  her. 

Clarisse  became  suddenly  ill,  and  thought 
herself  likely  to  die.  Then,  "  that  her  soul 
might  rest  in  peace,-  she  told  Babette  the 


163 


whole  story  of  her  life  since  the  night  when 
"an  old  woman,  who  looked  like  an  Italian," 
had  deserted  her  there,  a  little  sick  child,  wet 
through  to  the  skin  in  a  terrible  storm.  This 
was  all  any  one  knew. 

If  Clarisse  repeated  her  confession  as  soon 
as  she  was  well  again,  it  was  too  late  for  her 
to  retract.  Her  word  had  been  given  under 
pressure  of  circumstances  that  established  its 
truth  beyond  a  doubt. 

Each  word  she  had  spoken  had  fallen  like 
lead  upon  the  heart  of  the  poor  lonely  girl 
who  had  demanded  the  whole  truth,  thinking 
herself  prepared  to  know  the  worst.  But 
now  that  she  had  heard  it,  she  realized  that 
it  was  far  more  humiliating  than  anything 
she  had  feared.  Somehow  it  had  not  oc- 
curred to  her  that  even  her  name  might  not 
be  hers — that  she  could  be  an  utter  alien, 
having  no  real  claim  of  relationship  upon 
those  who  had  given  her  all — that  the  period 
of  her  life  of  which  her  "  aunt "  and  "  uncle  " 
had  known  nothing  was  all  of  it  up  to  the 
hour  of  her  adoption. 

It  was  a  bitter  discovery,  and  yet  there 
was  relief  in  it,  inasmuch  as  it  made  clear 
what  seemed  to  her  the  path  of  duty. 

Whether  her  notions  were  strained  or  not 


164 


—whether,  stickling  for  the  letter  of  truth, 
she  would  sacrifice  what,  through  its  spirit, 
was  truly  hers — there  may  be  differences  of 
opinion.  But  as  soon  as  she  had  heard  Cla- 
risse's  story,  she  knew  that  she  could  never 
touch  a  penny  of  the  money  left  to  "  Madame 
Bondurante's  niece." 

John  was  never  so  proud  of  her  as  when 
she  told  him  of  her  resolution.  As  she  stood 
before  him  clothed  in  black  from  throat  to 
toe,  and  unaffectedly  confided  to  him  all  the 
pitiful  story,  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
human  face  so  refined  and  beautiful. 

She  spoke  with  a  placid  composure  born  of 
the  intensity  of  her  feelings — told  him  of  her 
decision  and  of  all  her  modest  plans  for  the 
future  which  she  was  resolved  to  meet  brave- 
ly as  a  penniless  orphan,  supporting  herself 
by  teaching. 

John  keenly  felt  his  responsibility  as  her 
adviser  at  this  critical  moment.  He  knew 
all  the  circumstances,  and  was  much  troubled 
in  his  own  mind  with  doubts.  While  he  re- 
joiced in  the  nobility  of  character  which 
moved  her  to  surrender  everything  to  a  prin- 
ciple, he  questioned  her  position  somewhat. 
Madame  Bondurante  had  given  of  her  own, 
knowing  exactly  what  she  did.  Was  not 


165 


in  declining  it,  tripping  on  a  mere 
technicality?  Was  she  not  robbing  herself 
for  a  strained  idea  of  right?  He  feared  that 
she  was,  and  was  constrained  to  tell  her  so, 
even  though  while  he  spoke  he  felt  that  his 
words  were  vain. 

An  expression  of  deep  pain  passed  over 
her  face  as  she  answered  him  :  "  But  I  am 
not  Madame  Bondurante's  niece.  My  dear, 
blessed  Tantine  was  only  my  benefactress — 
not  my  aunt." 

She  had  begun  bravely,  but  now  her  lip 
quivered  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  she 
said :  "  It  is  better  that  I  should  have  work 
to  do.  It  will  keep  me  from  thinking.  Be- 
sides, I  want  to  work.  My  poor  Italian 
father  and  mother — " 

These  were  hard  words  for  her  to  say, 
and  her  voice  trembled,  and  she  bit  her  lip. 
For  only  a  moment  did  her  emotion  master 
her,  however. 

"  My  poor  parents  were  working-people. 
I  have  been  proud — proud  of  my  family — 
of  my  blood — hating  unrefinement,  and  I  " 
— she  raised  her  head  like  a  queen  as  she 
went  on — "  I  am  proud  yet,  but  not  of  such 
as  this.  Even  if  prosperity  came  again — if  I 
found  Clarisse's  story  all  a  dream — I  would 


166 


take  my  happiness  humbly,  I  think ;  but  I 
am  proud  of  something  within  me  which  tells 
me  my  own  people  were  honest.  Let  me 
accept  my  true  life — the  life  that  comes  to 
the  child  of  misfortune  and  poverty.  You 
have  taught  me  many  things  —  the  best  I 
definitely  know.  But  for  you  I  could  not 
put  my  feelings  now  into  words,  or  know 
why  I  am  sure  I  am  right.  My  beloved  fos- 
ter-parents gave  me  many  beautiful  stand- 
ards of  thought  and  life,  and  I  shall  love 
and  honor  them  till  I  die  ;  but  this — this  in- 
stinct of  independence  and  pride  is  a  trans- 
mitted gift.  If  my  poor  mother  deserted 
me,  she  sacrificed  herself  to  lay  me  in  a  soft- 
er bed  than  hers.  She  put  me  into  the  eager 
arms  of  a  hungry-hearted  mother  and  fled — 
out  into  the  rain  and  storm,  childless.  She 
was  a  martyr  —  a  saint.  Why  should  I  be 
ashamed?" 

Bright  red  spots  had  mounted  her  cheeks 
as  she  proceeded,  and  when  at  last  she 
stopped,  John,  looking  at  her,  felt  a  sob  ris- 
ing in  his  own  throat. 

Little  Bdbte — sweet,  playful,  pretty,  ami- 
able Btbte — had  never  shown  the  brave  spirit 
that  was  in  her  as  she  had  done  to-night. 
She  looked  so  small,  so  young,  so  beautiful. 


"'BUT   I    AM    NOT   MADAME    BONDURANTE'S    NIECE1" 


i67 


There  was  something  regal  in  the  indomi- 
table pride  with  which  she  took  her  lowly 
position. 

In  John's  eyes  she  seemed  both  the  holy 
things  she  had  called  her  own  mother ;  and 
it  was  with  this  feeling,  and  that  no  matter 
what  should  come  to  her  he  would  love  and 
protect  her  always,  that  he  took  her  hand 
and  raised  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"  My  sweet,  brave  little  sister,"  were  the 
only  words  he  said.  He  had  called  her  "lit- 
tle sister"  playfully  on  occasion  many  a  time 
before,  but  never  with  the  same  protecting 
love,  the  same  intensity  of  feeling. 

Babette  did  not  feel  that  it  would  be  best 
to  assign  her  reasons  for  the  position  she  had 
taken. 

The  name,  Marie  Bondurante,  was  the 
only  one  she  knew.  It  had  been  lovingly 
bestowed.  She  would  keep  it,  and  make  no 
explanations  to  any  one.  Not  even  to  her 
friend  Mrs.  McDonald  did  she  tell  the  pitiful 
half-story  of  her  life.  It  was  enough  that 
John  knew,  and  that  he  respected  if  he  did 
not  advise  the  course  upon  which  she  had 
decided. 

In  a  short  but  dignified  note  to  the  Bon- 
durante lawyer  she  formally  relinquished 


168 


all  right  to  the  estate.  She  gave  no  reason 
—asked  no  advice. 

The  old  lawyer  was  naturally  thunder- 
struck, and  hastened  to  see  her,  protesting 
most  earnestly  against  what  no  doubt  seemed 
to  him  an  insane  act. 

"  Excuse  me,  mademoiselle,  but  it  is  un- 
precedented— it  is  insane,  if  you  will  allow 
me.  And,  besides,  you  are  not  of  age.  A 
child  cannot  rob  herself.  The  laws  of  Louisi- 
ana, like  those  of  la  belle  France,  are  kind  to 
the  orphan  and  widow.  What  would  you 
do — you  a  young,  delicate  girl — a  flower  of 
the  conservatory — what  would  become  of 
you  alone,  penniless,  in  this  cruel  world? 
Ah !  Bah  !  It  cannot  be  done  !" 

"  That,  monsieur,  is  the  question  that 
comes  afterwards.  I  do  what  seems  right  to 
me,  and  then  deal  as  well  as  I  can  with  re- 
sults. As  to  my  age,  in  ten  days  I  shall  be 
eighteen.  You  may  come  again  if  you  wish, 
but  you  will  find  me  unchanged." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  a  keen 
scrutiny.  What  manner  of  nineteenth-cen- 
tury maiden  was  this  that  had  crossed  his 
crooked  old  path  ? 

She  was  surely  good  to  look  upon  —  as 
beautiful  a  maid  as  the  brightest  dream  of 


i69 


his  youth  ever  brought  before  his  closed  eyes 
in  sleep,  more  lovely  than  any  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  notably  lovely  women  among 
whom  he  lived. 

He  scratched  his  old  head  nervously  as  he 
went  out.  He  felt  somewhat  as  a  naturalist 
does  who  discovers  a  new  specimen.  He  did 
not  know  just  how  to  label  her. 

One  thing  was  certain,  however.  He 
would  take  his  time  about  making  it  known. 
She  might  yet  come  to  her  senses. 

He  went  again  to  see  her — not  once,  but 
several  times.  He  consulted  her  friends. 
Mrs.  McDonald  truly  said  she  knew  nothing 
of  her  reasons.  John  was  quite  sure  she  was 
fully  persuaded  in  her  own  mind.  Both 
were  entirely  satisfied  of  her  sanity. 

The  old  lawyer's  last  visit  of  protest  was 
as  unsatisfactory  as  the  first.  She  assured 
him  quietly  that  she  had  not  taken  her  po- 
sition thoughtlessly.  She  knew  it  meant 
poverty,  homelessness,  work. 

Indeed,  she  was  quite  decided  just  what 
work  she  would  seek,  and  perhaps,  since  he 
was  so  kind,  he  would  help  her  to  find  a 
position  to  teach. 

He  finally  saw  that  further  argument  was 
useless ;  but  in  his  musty  office  he  pondered 


much  upon  the  beautiful  girl  who,  from  his 
point  of  view,  seemed  bent  on  her  own  de- 
struction. 

Mrs.  McDonald,  seeing  that  John  did  not 
oppose  her,  said  little  on  the  subject,  though 
she  used  all  her  powers  of  persuasion  to  urge 
Babette  to  spend  at  least  one  year  with  her 
in  her  country  home  before  setting  out  to 
earn  her  living. 

"  I  have  no  girl,"  she  pleaded  ;  "  come  with 
me,  dear,  and  be  my  daughter." 

This  was  a  great  temptation,  but,  having 
decided  to  face  the  new  life  squarely,  prompt- 
ly, unflinchingly,  she  felt  that  this  would  be 
somewhat  of  a  retreat.  She  was  firm  in  her 
determination  to  teach.  Indeed,  her  peculiar 
education  fitted  her  exceptionally  well  for 
special  teaching.  Although  her  pronuncia- 
tion of  English  was  sometimes  delightfully 
Frenchy,  her  knowledge  of  its  grammar  and 
literature  was  thorough. 

The  old  lawyer,  finally  realizing  that  his 
eloquence  was  of  no  avail,  paid  her  one  more 
visit — this  time  a  visit  of  another  sort.  He 
declared  himself  one  minute  "  vexed,  baffled, 
furious ;"  the  next,  "  ready  to  wash  his  hands 
of  the  whole  affair ;"  and  then,  having  spent 
his  anger,  he  proceeded,  with  a  kindliness  of 


tone  that  belied  his  words,  to  tell  her  that 
"since  she  was  bent  on  suicide,  he  had 
brought  her  a  rope  to  hang  herself  with." 

Such  was  the  old  Frenchman's  way  of 
designating  the  offer  of  a  position  which  he 
had  brought  her. 

He  had  not  yet  submitted  her  name.  He 
wished  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  was  in  ear- 
nest. Yes,  he  understood  that  her  mind  was 
made  up — only  he  thought  best  to  see  her 
again.  He  had  a  friend,  just  returned  with 
his  family  from  a  long  residence  in  France — 
charming  people,  no  better  in  the  land.  The 
sons  and  daughters,  grown  up  abroad,  needed 
a  teacher  speaking  both  languages  to  instruct 
them  in  English.  If  mademoiselle  was  really 
quite  sure  that  she  wished  to  assume  poverty 
— if  she  would  accept  a  teacher's  position — 
here  was  an  opening.  He  had  been  asked 
to  recommend  some  one.  If  she  were  his 
own  daughter,  he  could  not  place  her  in  a 
more  desirable  home  —  so  far  as  that  went. 
Mademoiselle  need  not  decide  immediately. 
She  should  take  her  own  time — a  week,  or 
even  a  month. 

Needless  to  say  Babette  asked  little  time 
to  consider  a  proposition  like  this,  which 
seemed,  in  everyway,  a  providential  opening. 


172 


Six  weeks  later,  when  the  old  Bondurante 
homestead  passed  into  the  hands  of  the 
agent  representing  madame's  wealthy  kin- 
dred living  in  Paris,  Dr.  John  McDonald's 
sign  was  transferred  to  an  office  across  the 
street,  where  Noute  was  regularly  installed 
as  "  office  boy ;"  and  Babette,  parting  affec- 
tionately with  Mrs.  McDonald,  and  promis- 
ing to  come  to  her  for  a  long  visit  at  the  end 
of  the  year,  stepped  into  the  carriage  sent 
for  her  and  was  driven  around  to  the  hand- 
some home  of  Colonel  Le  Charmant,  where, 
in  her  own  father's  house,  she  was  to  enter 
upon  her  life  of  independence  as  English 
teacher  to  her  sisters  and  brothers  who  had 
grown  up  in  France. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  a  sad  little  group  of  three  who 
stood  at  the  Bondurante  gate  watching  the 
back  of  the  carriage  that  carried  the  lovely 
little  mistress  of  the  manse  away  from  them. 

Uncle  Tom  leaned  heavily  on  his  walking- 
cane,  and  only  grunted  his  objections  to  the 
whole  proceeding  ;  while  Clarisse,  poor  old 
soul,  paying  no  heed  to  the  great  tears  that 
coursed  adown  her  fat  cheeks,  kept  wiping 
her  hands  on  her  apron  over  and  over  again. 
Somehow,  although  she  had  heard  absolutely 
nothing,  she  connected  Babette's  going  away 
to  teach  with  her  own  confession,  and  she 
blamed  herself.  If  any  one  else,  under  the 
circumstances,  had  been  betrayed  into  giving 
this  testimony,  even  in  the  presence  of  death, 
she  would  have  denounced  her  as  unworthy 
the  trust.  And  so  now  she  denounced  her- 
self. This  was  why,  instead  of  weeping  tears 
of  simple,  unmixed  sorrow  over  the  final 
breaking  up  of  the  home,  she  stood  remorse- 
fully watching  the  receding  carriage  with 


174 


quivering  lips  that  tried  to  frame  a  prayer 
for  many  blessings  to  descend  upon  Mam- 
zelle's  head  in  compensation  for  the  wrong 
she  had  done  her.  This  was  why  she  was 
heedless  of  her  tear-stained  face,  and  stood 
nervously  expressing  her  powerless  protest 
in  her  old  way  —  wiping  and  wiping  her 
hands. 

Noute  leaned  against  the  gate-post,  his 
tearless  eyes  blinking  suspiciously,  until  the 
carriage  was  nearly  out  of  sight,  and  then, 
with  a  wild  cry,  as  if  of  pain,  he  sprang  for- 
ward and  ran  after  it  as  fast  as  he  could  go. 
He  had  no  trouble  in  keeping  the  carriage  in 
sight  until  it  stopped  at  last  at  the  Le  Char- 
mant  gate. 

John  and  his  mother  had  driven  with  Ba- 
bette  to  her  new  home,  and  when  they  had 
left  her  there  they  proceeded  to  the  depot, 
where  Mrs.  McDonald  took  the  train  for  her 
own  home. 

When  Noute,  standing  afar  off,  saw  the 
gate  close  and  the  carriage  drive  away,  leav- 
ing Babette  within,  he  turned  and  went  slow- 
ly back  home — not  to  his  new  home  with 
John  McDonald,  but  back  to  the  Bondurante 
house,  where  he  found  Clarisse  and  Uncle 
Tom  sitting  silently,  side  by  side,  upon  the 


175 


front  porch,  thus  unconsciously  advertising 
the  fact  that  the  old  house  was  deserted. 

Once  more  a  great  gate  had  closed  be- 
tween Noute  and  his  beloved  young  mis- 
tress ;  but  he  had  gained  sufficiently  in  in- 
telligence since  the  similar  episode  of  years 
ago  to  know  that  he  could  not  follow  her 
now. 

Clarisse  and  Uncle  Tom  had  been  retained 
for  the  present  in  charge  of  the  old  house 
and  garden,  and  so  Noute  would  always  be  a 
welcome  guest  there. 

The  three  sat  together  to-day,  saying  very 
little,  and  when  any  one  spoke  it  was  only 
to  remark  upon  some  trivial  matter,  as  when 
Uncle  Tom  said : 

"  I  wonder  for  w'at  dat  brick  is  lif  itself 
dat-a-way  in  de  walk  yander.  Bet  a  pica- 
yune one  'crevisse  *  try  to  push  up  one  chim- 
bly  'gins'  de  underside  dat  brick — " 

"  Mo'  like  one  doze  nasty  taupe  try  to  work 
his  road  out  so,"  said  Clarisse. 

"  Mais,  no,  Clarisse ;  dat  groun'  ain't  'cross 
de  lake,  no — nuthing  but  taupiniere.^  You 
don't  find  no  mole  in  dis  damp,  wet  craw- 
fish-mud. Mamzelle  Taupe,  she  like  to  keep 
herself  dry.  W'at  you  tink,  Noute  ?" 
*  Crawfish.  f  Mole-hills. 


1 76 


"  Me !  I  don't  tink  nutt'ing,"  was  poor 
Noute's  over-true  reply  ;  and  if  it  held  a  bit 
of  humor,  none  of  the  three  knew  it,  as  they 
lapsed  into  a  silence,  to  be  broken  presently 
by  a  trivial  remark  from  Uncle  Tom  about 
the  weather. 

So,  avoiding  the  subject  that  filled  their 
minds — because  it  was  too  sorrowful  to  trust 
themselves  to  talk  about  yet — they  chatted 
idly  on  until  nearly  dark,  when  John  Mc- 
Donald's carriage  stopped  at  the  door  op- 
posite. Then  Noute  sprang  from  his  seat 
and  ran  over  to  report  for  duty. 

After  Babette,  Noute  cared  more  for 
John,  or  for  "  Dr.  Jean,"  as  he  called  him, 
than  for  any  one  else  in  the  world.  If  Mam- 
zelle  B£b£e  had  gone  away  to  live  in  another 
house  among  strange  people,  Dr.  Jean  had 
taken  her  there.  It  must  be  right. 

If  Noute  himself  had  consented  to  leave 
Mamzelle's  service  and  go  to  work  for  Dr. 
Jean,  she  had  told  him  to  do  it,  and  of 
course  it  was  right. 

She  had  gone  to  live  in  a  more  preten- 
tious house  than  the  Bondurante  home 
even.  Noute  and  the  doctor  had  taken  nar- 
rower quarters.  This  satisfied  his  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things.  Just  how  much  think- 


177 


ing  he  did  it  would  be  hard  to  say ;  but  cer- 
tain it  is  that  when  he  followed  the  carriage, 
if  he  had  seen  it  leave  Babette  at  any  of  the 
humble-looking  houses  that  lined  its  course, 
there  would  have  been  trouble. 

He  knew  the  French  quarter  of  the  city 
in  certain  directions  pretty  well  by  this 
time,  and  he  had  often  passed  the  Le  Char- 
mant  gate  and  gazed  in  admiringly  at  the 
two  cast-iron  lions  that  guarded  its  front 
steps. 

He  had  discovered  one  of  them  while  the 
garden  was  overrun  with  weeds,  while  the 
family  were  still  abroad. 

A  single  ferocious -looking  head  had 
seemed  to  glare  at  him  from  a  dense  bower 
of  honeysuckle  vines  that  had  enveloped 
the  rest  of  the  figure,  and  he  had  started 
back  in  fear,  thinking  it  a  living  beast. 

And  then  when,  a  day  or  two  afterwards, 
he  had  come  timidly  to  peep  and  see  if  the 
beast  was  still  there,  he  had  seen  a  little  bird 
perch  upon  the  iron  mane,  and  he  was  so 
amused  to  find  how  he  had  been  deceived 
that  he  threw  up  his  hat  and  caught  it,  and 
turned  somersaults  half  way  down  the  block. 

Then  when  the  old  garden  had  been 
trimmed  and  put  in  order  for  the  family's 


1 78 


return,  and  another  lion  had  seemed  to  step 
out  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  steps,  the 
two  forming  a  noble  guard  to  the  stately 
portal,  the  place  had  seemed  to  him  trans- 
formed into  a  palace. 

If  Noute  had  been  told  to  select  a  home 
worthy  of  Mamzelle,  he  would  have  gone 
straight  to  the  palace  of  the  two  lions.  If 
he  could  have  chosen  his  own  home  out- 
side the  Bondurante  gate  and  away  from 
Babette,  he  would  have  gone  across  the 
street  only,  where,  from  the  front  window 
or  door,  he  could  gaze  into  the  old  garden. 
He  would  have  chosen  to  live  with  Dr. 
Jean. 

Any  time  when  he  should  be  off  duty,  he 
could  go  over  and  sit  and  talk  —  or  refuse 
to  talk — with  Clarisse  and  Uncle  Tom,  who 
were  his  friends  and  knew  all  his  moods. 
And,  too,  he  could  exercise  a  sort  of  guar- 
dianship over  the  old  garden,  protecting  cer- 
tain mocking-birds'  nests  of  which  he  knew, 
and  the  half-open  magnolia  buds  against  the 
depredations  of  the  small  boy.  He  could 
gather  bouquets  of  roses  and  baskets  of 
red  and  white  camellias,  and  carry  them 
around  to  the  gate  where  the  two  lions 
were,  and  send  them  in  to  "  Mamzelle  Be- 


179 


be"e."  All  these  things  he  could  and  did  do 
during  the  weeks  and  months  following;  and 
indeed,  sometimes,  seeing  the  cocoa -grass, 
which  he  had  kept  in  semi-subjection  for  so 
many  years,  laying  siege  with  renewed  vigor 
to  its  old  ground,  he  would  seize  his  trowel 
and  open  battle  with  it  again  in  the  old  gar- 
den. 

Sometimes  —  and  these  were  red-letter 
days  to  the  "  poor  foolish  " — Dr.  Jean  would 
send  him  to  carry  a  note  to  the  house  of  the 
two  lions,  and  then  he  would  have  the  joy 
of  asking  to  see  Mamzelle  herself,  and  of 
standing  and  blinking  and  grinning  with  de- 
light while  he  awaited  her  answer. 

Babette's  life,  in  her  chosen  occupation, 
was  from  the  first  so  busy  that  she  found 
little  time  for  repining,  and  yet  there  were 
times  when  the  mystery  of  her  life  weighed 
very  heavily  upon  her ;  and  many  nights, 
while  the  family  were  all  asleep,  a  certain 
little  bundle  of  clothing,  tied  with  a  blue 
cord  and  tassel,  was  wet  with  bitter  tears. 

Within  the  dainty  white  garments,  yel- 
lowed with  time,  she  had  laid  a  shabby  little 
dress  of  shrunken  flannel  and  a  pair  of  wool- 
len stockings,  faded  and  old.  These  things 
she  had  found  hidden  away  in  Madame  Bon- 


1 8o 


durante's  armoire*  and  Clarissa  had  told  her 
that  they  were  the  garments  she  had  worn 
when  she  was  deserted  by  the  old  woman  in 
the  storm.  Spreading  them  out  upon  her 
lap  —  the  shabby  clothes  on  one  side,  the 
dainty  ones  apart — she  would  study  them 
over,  wishing  for  power  to  read  the  mysteri- 
ous story  in  which  they  both  played  so  evi- 
dent a  part. 

The  Le  Charmants  were  all  more  than 
kind,  and  the  young  sons  and  daughters 
soon  became  devotedly  attached  to  their 
beautiful  young  governess. 

Babette,  although  she  grew  fond  of  them 
all,  was  especially  drawn  towards  the  old 
grandmother.  She  reminded  her  of  her  be- 
loved Tantine ;  but  perhaps  a  deeper  feeling 
lay  in  the  fact  that  the  heart -hungry  girl 
unconsciously  responded  to  the  tenderness 
of  the  old  lady  for  her. 

Ever  since  the  loss  of  her  own  granddaugh- 
ter and  godchild,  the  dear  little  Babette,  the 
grandmother  had  regarded  all  girls  of  about 
her  age  with  an  affectionate  interest. 

She  had  wondered,  as  did  all  the  family, 
what  eccentric  whim  had  influenced  Miss 
Bondurante  to  decline  her  uncle's  fortune ; 
*  Wardrobe. 


but  as  Babette  never  spoke  of  her  own  af- 
fairs, a  sense  of  delicacy  forbade  their  ever 
referring  to  them.  Of  course,  they  could 
ask  no  questions. 

The  pleasant  relations  between  her  and 
the  Le  Charmant  daughters  had  soon  ripened 
into  personal  friendships,  which  grew  and 
strengthened  with  the  months. 

Dr.  McDonald  was  now  a  handsome  and 
popular  young  physician,  growing  in  practice 
and  popularity.  It  was  but  natural  that  he 
should  have  been  much  sought  by  society ; 
but,  though  he  was  too  busy  and  serious  a 
man  now  to  find  time  for  such  a  life,  or 
pleasure  in  it,  he  was  a  frequent  and  al- 
ways welcome  visitor  at  the  Le  Charmant 
home. 

If  the  beautiful  and  sweet  little  governess 
had  needed  anything  to  add  to  her  prestige, 
she  would  have  found  it  in  the  devoted 
friendship  of  the  popular  and  successful  Dr. 
McDonald. 

Babette  had  been  for  more  than  six 
months  in  her  new  home,  and  any  one 
looking  in  upon  her  life  there  would  surely 
have  pronounced  her  perfectly  happy. 

Often  in  the  late  afternoons  or  evenings 
she  could  be  seen,  dressed  in  white  muslin, 


182 


with  a  black  ribbon  about  her  waist,  walking 
through  the  garden  with  one  of  the  girls  on 
either  side  of  her,  their  arms  about  her  waist ; 
and  the  old  grandmother,  looking  at  them 
from  her  arm  -  chair  on  the  porch,  would 
think,  "  She  reminds  me  of  our  own  little 
one.  If  she  is  living,  maybe  she  is  just  as 
tall  now  as  Mademoiselle ;  and  how  sweetly 
she  would  fit  in — just  so — between  the  two, 
Arth£  and  Felicie  ! — Felicieborn  in  France." 

How  long  this  half-happy  state  of  affairs 
would  have  continued  it  would  be  hard  to 
surmise  had  nothing  unusual  happened.  But 
something  very  unexpected  and  terrible  did 
suddenly  occur.  The  little  governess  was 
taken  violently  ill.  The  old  grandmother, 
already  tenderly  fond  of  the  beautiful,  lonely 
girl,  was  all  devotion  now. 

"  Maybe  our  own  Btfbtfc  is  sick  somewhere 
among  strangers,"  she  said  in  her  own  heart 
as  she  sat  beside  her  bed  tenderly  minister- 
ing to  her  wants. 

Indeed,  never  since  the  child  Babette  had 
been  lost  had  it  been  possible  for  her  to  do 
a  kindness  to  any  girl  but  she  had  done  it 
in  the  lost  child's  name.  Even  when  she 
had  met  poor  little  beggar-girls  on  her  way 
to  church  in  Paris,  she  had  dropped  a  coin 


•HOW  SWEETI-Y   SHE    WOULD   FIT   IN-JUST   SO-BETWEEN  THE 
TWO,  ARTHE    AND   HEI.ICIE!'" 


183 


into  their  hands,  thinking,  "  Maybe  my  poor 
little  girl  is  begging  somewhere." 

For  several  long  weeks  Babette  lay  ill  with 
brain-fever.  She  had  never  been  very  robust, 
and  the  tension  of  the  mental  strain  through 
which  she  had  passed  had  been  very  great. 
If  anything  recent  had  happened  to  bring 
on  such  an  attack,  no  one  knew  it. 

Some  days  she  would  lie  in  a  stupor,  seem- 
ing to  recognize  no  one,  while  at  other  times 
she  would  start  nervously,  calling  "Mantan  /" 
"  Tantine  /"  or  "  Ntnaine  /" 

One  day  while  she  lay  apparently  insensi- 
ble, the  grandmother,  trying  to  rouse  her  to 
take  some  medicine,  called  "  Mademoiselle 
Bondurante,"  as  she  had  always  done,  when 
the  sick  girl,  starting  up  and  looking  wildly 
about  her,  cried : 

"  No — not  that !  That  is  not  my  name ! 
It  is  only  borrowed !  No — it  is  mine — it  was 
a  present — a  pretty,  pretty  present.  They 
gave  me  riches,  too,  but  the  riches  didn't  be- 
long. Would  you  take  what  didn't  belong? 
I  have  no  name.  Yes,  I  have  two  names. 
One  day  it  is  '  Blue  Tassels,'  and  the  next 
day  it  is  only  'Woollen  Stockings.'  To-day 
it  is '  Riches,'  and  to-morrow  it  is  '  Poverty.* 
Which  do  you  think  belongs — '  Blue  Tas- 


1 84 


sels '  or '  Woollen  Stockings'?  Tell  me  quick, 
before  I  forget." 

The  family  gathered  about  her  bed,  fright- 
ened lest  she  might  be  dying,  and  sent  away 
in  haste  for  the  family  doctor,  while  a  sec- 
ond messenger  ran  to  tell  Dr.  McDonald. 

The  mother,  Madame  Le  Charmant,  leaned 
over  her,  bathing  her  head  and  trying  to 
soothe  her. 

"  Tell  me,  madame,"  she  continued.  "  Tell 
me  why  I  had  no  mother.  But  I  had  a  god- 
mother. It  is  my  christening  dress.  Where 
is  my  godmother?  She  was  a  lady — I  know 
by  the  little  stitches — and  the  blue — " 

They  all  wept  silently,  standing  about  the 
bedside,  and  the  mother's  tears  fell  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  sick  girl's  night-gown  as  she 
tenderly  kissed  her. 

When  the  doctor  came,  he  gave  her  a 
soothing  potion. 

"  This  is  better  than  the  stupor,"  he  said. 
"  It  may  be  that  the  crisis  is  past.  Let  her 
be  kept  perfectly  quiet." 

As  she  gradually  succumbed  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  medicine,  she  continued  to  ex- 
claim, in  broken  sentences: 

"  Miss  Marie  Blue  Tassels— a  pretty  name !" 
Then,  sobbing,  the  next  minute  she  would 


185 


say:  "Only  a  little  beggar— but  I  am  not 
ashamed.  That  is  my  crest — a  pair  of  wool- 
len stockings — ha,  ha,  ha !" 

So  she  continued,  at  lengthening  intervals, 
for  nearly  a  half-hour,  when  she  seemed  near- 
ly asleep;  then,  rousing  suddenly,  she  clasped 
her  forehead  as  if  in  pain. 

The  grandmother,  seeing  her  growing  drow- 
siness, had  sent  every  one  else  out  of  the 
room.  Turning  now,  she  opened  the  ar- 
moire  door  and  took  from  its  shelf  a  bottle  of 
cologne-water.  She  had  done  so  before  many 
times  during  the  girl's  illness,  and  yet,  strange 
to  say,  she  had  never  until  now  noticed  on  an 
under  shelf  a  white  bundle  lying,  tied  about 
the  outside  with  a  blue  cord  and  tassel,  and 
beside  it  a  pair  of  little  woollen  stockings. 
She  started  involuntarily  at  the  sight,  and  as 
she  made  her  way  back  to  the  bedside  with 
the  cologne,  her  old  heart  was  thumping 
fiercely.  She  hardly  knew  what  she  thought, 
or  hoped,  or  feared.  As  the  old  lady  ten- 
derly bathed  Babette's  temples  with  the  co- 
logne water  she  soon  began  to  breathe  regu- 
larly. 

"  I  have  a  godmother,  I  know  by  the  blue 
tassels.  Kiss  me,  .N£naine,"  she  murmured 
softly,  as  she  at  last  dropped  into  sleep ;  and 


1 86 


neither  knew  that  it  was  even  her  own  god- 
mother, the  "  Nenaine  "  of  her  infancy,  who 
gave  the  kiss  she  asked,  her  heart  fairly 
trembling  within  her  as  she  did  so. 

It  seemed  absurd  for  her  to  be  so  wrought 
up  with  a  nameless  hope.  Was  not  the  little 
governess  a  niece  of  Dr.  Bondurante — old 
Dr.  Bondurante  whom  everybody  knew  ? 

And  yet,  when  she  had  noiselessly  restored 
the  bottle  to  its  place,  and,  reaching  down, 
took  the  mysterious  little  parcels  in  her 
hands,  she  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarce- 
ly stand.  She  looked  first  at  the  shabby  lit- 
tle checked  flannel  dress  and  faded  woollen 
stockings ;  then  she  unrolled  the  other  bun- 
dle, saw  the  little  time -stained  dress,  felt 
the  blue  tassels,  and  then —  A  single  quick 
scream  escaped  her  as  she  clutched  the  ar- 
moire  door  for  support. 

Fearing  that  she  might  have  disturbed  the 
sick  girl,  she  turned  quickly  and  looked  tow- 
ards the  bed.  She  was  in  a  profound,  peace- 
ful sleep.  The  doctor's  medicine  had  done 
its  work. 

But  the  family  in  the  next  room  had  heard 
and  hurried  to  the  door.  Seeing  their  alarmed 
faces,  the  old  lady  threw  up  her  arm  in  a  si- 
lent, dramatic  appeal  for  quiet,  and,  still  con- 


187 


vulsively  clasping  the  bundle  of  clothing, 
staggered  out  of  the  room. 

The  scene  that  followed  baffles  description. 
The  little,  long -lost  garments  finished  the 
half-told  story  of  the  delirious  girl.  Even  if 
the  old  lady  had  not  recognized  every  twist 
and  stitch  of  the  old  cord  and  tassels,  the 
work  of  her  own  hands,  the  folded  papers 
within  the  tassels  would  have  supplied,  by 
their  well-preserved  testimony,  all  needed 
proof  of  their  identity. 

In  a  few  moments  both  mother  and  father 
were  kneeling  and  sobbing  silently  at  the 
bedside  of  poor  little  Babette,  who  slept  on 
unconscious  of  the  joyous  answer  that  had 
been  found  to  the  hard  question  that  had  so 
disturbed  her  head.  The  younger  ones,  her 
sisters  and  brothers,  unable  to  control  them- 
selves, ran  to  a  distant  room  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  house,  and  wept  aloud.  Thither, 
too,  ran  the  servants,  adding  their  tears  and 
cries  of  joy  to  the  general  thanksgiving.  If 
dear  old  Tante  Angele  could  only  have  been 
there,  too ! 

John  soon  arrived  and  the  little  French 
priest,  both  of  whom  had  been  sent  for,  and 
together  they  all  wept  tears  of  happiness, 
of  praise,  and  of  hope  that  the  dear  one 


188 


restored  would  soon  awake  to  conscious- 
ness. 

A  blessed  waking,  indeed,  awaited  the 
lonely  girl — to  father,  mother,  sisters,  and 
home ;  to  the  conscious  possession  of  the 
dear  grandmother,  the  "  Nenaine  "  for  whom 
she  had  called  in  her  delirium ;  to  a  name 
of  her  own,  recovered  in  her  father's  house. 

When,  after  a  long  and  deep  sleep,  she 
finally  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  feebly 
from  one  face  to  another,  it  was  hard  for  the 
loving  ones  in  attendance  to  guard  their 
eyes,  as  well  as  their  lips,  lest  they  should 
tell  the  forbidden  story.  The  doctor  ordered 
the  most  perfect  quiet,  forbidding  so  much 
as  a  word,  beyond  the  needs  of  the  sick- 
room, for  many  days  to  come. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  must  continue  even 
to  call  her  Miss  Bondurante.  She  has  passed 
through  a  terrible  mental  strain.  I  could 
not  answer  for  the  result  of  any  shock  in  her 
enfeebled  condition.  She  has  come  back 
to  us.  We  must  not  let  her  slip  from  our 
arms  again,"  he  added,  tenderly  pressing  the 
grandmother's  hand  as  he  left  the  room. 

And  so  for  two  long  weeks  more  they 
hovered  lovingly  about  her  bed,  keeping  the 
sweet  secret  with  their  lips,  but  telling  it  a 


c8g 


hundred  times  a  day  by  yearning  tender- 
nesses; and  many  times  the  pillow  beside 
her  head  was  wet  with  tears  while  she 
slept. 

Often  as  her  sisters'  faces  lay  against  hers, 
the  mother  and  grandmother,  overcome  with 
emotion  as  they  looked  at  them,  would  have 
to  leave  the  room.  "  See  how  her  sweet 
face  matches  the  others  !"  they  would  say. 
"  Why  were  we  so  blind  as  not  to  see  it  be- 
fore?" 

And  the  old  grandmother,  going  into  her 
own  room,  would  fall  upon  her  knees  at  her 
little  prie-dieu,  and  sob  her  old  heart  out  in 
praise  and  thanksgiving. 

Meanwhile  the  news  had  gone  abroad  over 
all  the  city.  The  one  place  in  which  it  had 
not  been  told  was  the  sweet  flower-perfumed 
chamber  where  the  chief  actor  in  the  little 
drama  lay. 

Finally,  the  time  came  when  the  doctor 
consented  that  she  should  know  the  truth. 
It  was  a  trying  ordeal,  after  all  —  to  tell 
her  gently,  quietly,  without  great  emotion. 
Each  member  of  the  family  in  turn  was  sug- 
gested as  the  one  most  capable  of  self-con- 
trol, and  each  fell  to  sobbing  at  the  bare 
thought.  If  they  could  have  rushed  to  her, 


open-armed  and  screaming  with  joy,  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough. 

At  last  the  grandmother  consented  to  bear 
the  good  news.  Father  and  mother  would 
sit  beside  the  bed,  but  the  irrepressible  sis- 
ters and  brothers  should  not  be  allowed  to 
come  in  until  they  were  called. 

The  father,  creole-like,  had  brought  a  box 
of  handsome  jewels,  marked  in  her  full  name, 
"Marie  Babette  Le  Charmant ;"  and  he  en- 
tered the  room  and  took  his  seat  with  the 
case  in  his  hand.  It  would  prepare  her  for 
a  surprise. 

Babette,  dressed  in  a  beautiful  pink  me- 
rino wrapper,  and  with  a  bunch  of  blush- 
roses  pinned  at  her  throat,  sat  propped  up 
in  lace -covered  pillows.  Her  mother  sat 
upon  the  bed  beside  her,  the  grandmother 
taking  a  low  rocking-chair  on  the  other  side. 
The  father  drew  his  chair  close  beside  the 
grandmother. 

The  old  lady's  face  twitched  pitifully  as, 
taking  Babette's  thin  hand  in  one  of  hers 
and  laying  the  other  fat  palm  on  top  of  it, 
she  said,  "  Chfric,  we  have  some  good  news 
for  you — good  news  for  us  all." 

The  mother's  face  was  in  the  pillow  in  a 
moment,  and  the  father's  head  fell  upon  his 


trembling  hand.  Before  the  grandmother 
had  been  able  to  steady  her  voice  again 
Babette  had  kissed  her  mother's  forehead, 
and  extended  her  arms  to  father  and  grand- 
mother. 

"I  know  it  already  —  for  a  long  time  I 
have  known  —  maman,  papa,  Nenaine,"  she 
said,  laying  her  arms  over  the  two  bowed 
heads  before  her  and  hiding  her  face  in  her 
grandmother's  bosom.  "  The  night  before  I 
was  taken  ill  it  must  have  been,"'  she  said, 
presently  ;  "  for  it  is  the  last  thing  I  remem- 
ber, Arthe"  told  me  about — about  her  little 
sister  and  the  white  dress  and  blue  tassels, 
and  my  heart  beat  so  I  could  hardly  listen. 
I  knew  it  then,  but  I  could  not  speak ;  and 
when  I  waked  up  everything  was  strange. 
I  think  I  had  fever.  Then  one  day,  not 
very  long  ago — about  two  weeks,  I  think — I 
waked  again,  and  every  one  was  to  me  as 
my  own.  And  it  seemed  to  me  you  knew, 
and  then  I  rested  and  slept.  I  think  I  was 
weak.  I  was  afraid  to  speak,  lest  it  would 
all  disappear ;  and  while  I  kept  still,  you 
were  always  here.  I  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  it  was  true  —  or  a  dream.  Only 
since  yesterday  I  wanted  to  speak,  knowing 
it  would  not  vanish.  And  I  saw  in  your 


192 

faces  that  you  knew.  How  did  you  find  it 
out,  Nenaine,  maman,  papa  ?  Was  it  the 
little  dress?" 

And  then,  helped  to  self-possession  by  the 
girl's  calmness,  they  wiped  their  eyes  and 
told  all  the  story,  and  about  the  name  in  the 
blue  tassels.  Still,  the  whole  mystery  was 
not  solved. 

As  soon  as  Babette  was  strong  enough  to 
undergo  the  ordeal,  they  sent  for  Clarisse 
and  for  Noute.  And,  of  course,  John  was 
there  and  the  little  French  priest. 

The  old  woman  only  confirmed  her  pre- 
vious story,  the  one  Babette  already  knew. 
Indeed,  it  was  all  she  could  tell. 

Noute  did  his  very  best,  but,  as  before, 
whenever  he  appeared  to  be  on  the  very 
edge  of  a  revelation,  his  mind  seemed  to  fail 
him  utterly. 

"  Perhaps  you  could  take  us  to  the  place 
where  you  lived  on  the  beach,"  John  sug- 
gested finally,  as  a  last  resort. 

At  this  Noute  jumped  up  and  clapped  his 
hands.  "  Yes,"  he  could  go  there  "  in  a 
boat  r  And  then,  although  it  was  very  bad 
manners,  he  turned  a  double  somersault  in 
the  presence  of  the  entire  company. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

NOUTE'S  evident  faith  in  himself  inspired 
his  hearers  with  confidence,  even  though  his 
enthusiasm  was  so  grotesquely  and  charac- 
teristically expressed ;  and  it  was  soon  de- 
cided that  the  voyage  of  investigation  should 
be  attempted,  at  least. 

It  was  thought  best  that  Babette  should 
go,  too — in  which  case,  of  course,  there  would 
be  a  family  party — as  a  return  to  the  familiar 
scenes  might  revive  her  own  recollections  of 
her  life  there,  and  perhaps  help  to  unravel 
her  tangled  story. 

Of  course  Colonel  Le  Charmant  would  get 
a  good  boat,  and  there  would  be  experienced 
sailors  aboard  who  should  obey  Noute's  in- 
structions as  to  their  course. 

A  novel  journey  it  was  to  be,  indeed,  with 
Noute  the  foolish  for  bona  fide  captain,  hav- 
ing officers  and  crew  under  him.  Although 
its  object  was  serious  enough,  there  were 
others  besides  the  blinking  commander  to 
whom  it  seemed  little  less  than  a  pleasure 
excursion,  even  in  anticipation. 
13 


194 

The  trip  was  necessarily  deferred  for  sev- 
eral weeks  until  Babette  should  be  quite  well 
and  strong,  and  in  this  interval  there  was 
probably  never,  in  all  the  history  of  the  old 
French  city,  a  more  popular  convalescent 
than  she. 

The  romantic,  half-told  story  of  the  little 
Creole  girl,  who  had  apparently  dropped  out 
of  existence  nearly  sixteen  years  before,  to 
return,  an  accomplished  and  beautiful  young 
woman,  to  her  own  father's  house,  was  told 
a  hundred  times  a  day  on  every  street  corner, 
and  the  fact  that  her  restoration  to  her  own 
people  had  come  directly  through  her  vol- 
untarily sacrificing  everything  for  a  principle 
made  her  a  heroine  indeed. 

Telegrams  of  congratulation  had  come  in 
to  the  family  daily  from  all  over  the  land, 
even  cabled  messages  from  over  the  seas,  ever 
since  the  day  the  news  had  gone  abroad  ;  and 
Babette's  own  room  had  for  weeks  been  a 
bower  of  roses.  From  all  directions  the  floral 
offerings  came :  great  pyramids  of  roses  from 
the  gardens  of  the  Ursuline  nuns  below  the 
city,  and  from  the  convent  of  the  sweet  sis- 
ters in  Greenville;  flowers  and  congratula- 
tions from  the  Governor  of  the  State  and 
from  the  French  Consul,  and  from  strangers. 


195 

Of  course  there  were  always  roses  from 
Noute — little,  short-stemmed  damask-roses, 
choked  up  to  their  necks  with  a  white  string  ; 
or  sometimes  great  branches,  with  a  hun- 
dred Liliputian  blossoms  upon  them,  from 
the  picayune  rose-bushes  in  the  old  garden. 
Yet  there  were  none  more  welcome. 

Finally,  the  day  of  the  journey  arrived,  and 
the  party  set  sail  for  the  unknown  shore, 
where  had  lived  the  unknown  woman  who 
had  played  an  unknown  part  in  this  myste- 
rious chapter  of  Babette's  life.  Here  Babette 
had  lived — and  Noute.  From  here  she  had 
come  in  an  old  woman's  arms.  This  was  all 
they  knew. 

All  the  Le  Charmant  family  went — even 
the  old  grandmother,  who  had  refused  to  en- 
ter any  of  these  sailing  craft  for  twenty  years. 
She  would  see  with  her  own  eyes  the  roof 
that  had  sheltered  the  dear  child  ;  and  if  any 
harm  should  come  to  the  little  boat  and  its 
crew  she  would  rather  be  with  them  than 
not. 

Of  course  John  was  of  the  party,  and  the 
little  priest,  and  one  or  two  of  the  servants 
who  had  begged  to  go. 

And  of  course,  though  Babette  did  not 
know  it,  there  were  among  the  crew  two  com- 


196 


missioned  police-officers,  with  authority  to 
arrest  if  the  suspected  persons  should  be 
found. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  journey  all  eyes 
were  turned  inquiringly  upon  "  Captain 
Noute,"  as  he  was  playfully  called  ;  but  it 
was  only  a  short  time  before  he  proved  him- 
self capable  of  the  undertaking.  He  had  not 
forgotten  the  way. 

They  had  started  in  the  gray  of  the  early 
morning,  and  the  sun  was  still  above  the 
horizon  when  the  little  boat  took  a  landward 
course,  and  soon  ran  alongside  a  row  of  old 
decayed  stumps — the  remains  of  Nick's  di- 
lapidated wharf.  As  soon  as  the  hut  came 
into  sight  Noute  was  so  delighted  with  his 
achievement  that  if  there  had  been  room 
upon  the  narrow  deck  he  would  certainly  have 
performed  a  few  of  his  lofty  tumbles,  and  so 
the  dignity  of  the  captain  was  saved  simply 
for  lack  of  floor  space.  But  he  did  a  gener- 
ous amount  of  grinning  and  blinking,  and 
when  at  last  the  little  boat  was  tied  at  the 
end  of  the  rickety  pier  he  could  contain 
himself  no  longer,  but,  with  a  whoop,  threw 
his  hat  high  into  the  air.  In  its  descent  it 
fell  upon  the  tip  of  the  main-mast,  where  it 
remained  for  several  minutes  before  a  gust 


197 

of  wind  brought  it  down  and  carried  it 
ashore. 

Noute  and  his  absurd  antics  had  so  en- 
gaged the  attention  of  the  company  that 
they  had  as  yet  hardly  noticed  the  aspect  of 
the  beach,  and  it  was  not  until  the  men  of 
the  party  had  followed  Noute  along  the 
wharf  and  were  turning  towards  a  clump  of 
trees  that  they  discovered  the  little  cabin, 
almost  hidden  now  by  the  dense  growth  of 
overhanging  foliage. 

Colonel  Le  Charmant  advised  the  ladies 
to  stay  in  the  boat  until  they  should  "go 
ashore  and  investigate  matters." 

As  the  party  neared  the  shanty  they  saw 
that  a  crowd  was  assembled  in  the  little  front 
room.  Nick's  wife  stood  at  the  door  wiping 
her  eyes  upon  her  apron,  and  when  Noute 
approached  her  and  began  to  talk  she  cov- 
ered her  face  in  terror. 

What  Noute  said  was  simply,  "  Comment 
$a  va !  W'ere's  de  ole  woman  ?"  Not  a 
very  gracious  greeting  this,  but  it  was  not 
addressed  to  a  critical  audience. 

The  woman  kept  her  face  in  her  apron, 
weeping  afresh,  and  made  no  answer.  But 
Nick,  who  stood  beside  her  within  the  door, 
had  heard  the  inquiry.  He  sullenly  pointed 


I98 


to  a  bed  in  the  remote  corner  of  the  room. 
Here  lay  all  that  was  left  of  the  old  gypsy. 
And  she  was  dying. 

Noute  entered  the  room,  followed  by  Col- 
onel Le  Charmant,  the  priest,  and  John. 

As  the  old  woman's  eyes  fell  upon  the 
well- remembered  companion  of  her  seafar- 
ings, and  then  upon  him  whom  she  recog- 
nized as  the  father  of  the  stolen  child,  she 
threw  up  her  bony  hands  in  a  gesture  of 
terror  and  despair. 

"  Go  quickly  and  bring  Babette,"  said 
Colonel  Le  Charmant,  turning  to  John  Mc- 
Donald. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  the  visitors 
stood  with  uncovered  heads  by  the  bedside 
of  death  awaiting  Babette's  coming  —  not 
a  word  by  the  awe -stricken  crowd  at  the 
door  or  the  police-officers  waiting  with- 
out. 

The  dying  woman  was  the  only  one  who 
recognized  Colonel  Le  Charmant ;  but  Nick 
and  his  wife  knew  Noute,  and  his  sudden  ap- 
pearance with  an  important-looking  company 
seemed  a  menace.  They  were  frightened. 
Only  the  old  woman's  fitful  breathing,  and 
an  occasional  muffled  sob  from  her  terrified, 
sorrow-stricken  daughter,  mingled  with  the 


igg 


sighing  of  the  pines  and  the  lapping  of  the 
waves  against  the  beach. 

A  broad  shaft  of  the  low  evening  sun 
came  in  through  the  open  door,  and,  as 
Colonel  Le  Charmant  turned  presently  and, 
meeting  Babette,  took  her  hand  and  led  her 
to  the  old  woman's  bedside,  this  illuminating 
beam  fell  for  a  moment  upon  Babette's  face. 
Whether  it  was  this  sudden  lighting  up  of 
her  features,  or  only  seeing  her  beside  her 
father,  which  told  the  story,  we  cannot 
know.  But  the  gypsy  understood.  Rais- 
ing her  thin  arms  again,  and  turning  her 
eyes  towards  heaven,  she  cried,  in  a  thin, 
tremulous  voice,  "  Thank  God  !"  For  some 
moments  she  was  too  much  overcome  to 
speak  again ;  but  presently,  in  a  voice  bro- 
ken often  by  coughing,  she  confessed  her 
awful  crime. 

"All  these,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  tall, 
slatternly  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  standing 
about  the  door — "all  these;  they  were  little 
and  hungry.  I  was  old ;  it  was  for  the  re- 
ward— the  money  ;  but  I  was  afraid.  God 
forgive  me  !" 

So  much  effort  brought  on  a  spell  of  ex- 
haustion, and  it  seemed  as  if  she  might  be 
dying. 


"Say  you  forgive  her,  father,"  Babette 
plead,  as,  leaving  his  side,  she  went  close 
to  the  bed  and  laid  her  hand  gently  upon 
the  old  woman's  forehead. 

The  father  could  not  resist  this  appeal. 
Stepping  beside  his  daughter,  and  putting 
his  arm  around  her,  he  said,  in  a  voice  in 
which  there  was  no  vestige  of  resentment, 
but  only  tender,  human  sympathy,  "  We  for- 
give you.  May  God  have  mercy  upon  your 
soul !" 

As  she  heard  these  words  she  clasped  her 
hands  and  muttered  some  inarticulate  words, 
but  their  sound  was  more  of  praise  than  of 
prayer.  Perhaps  even  from  the  slough  of 
sin  and  degradation  into  which  she  had  fall- 
en she  had  been  praying  for  this  sight — the 
stolen  child  restored  to  her  father's  arms — 
and  even  this  extreme  moment  was  to  her 
an  hour  of  rejoicing. 

Colonel  Le  Charmant  had  turned  away, 
and  beckoned  to  the  priest  to  come  for- 
ward. At  sight  of  him  the  old  woman 
smiled  and  tried  to  speak.  It  was  enough. 
The  priest  took  his  missal  from  his  pocket, 
and,  while  every  one  fell  upon  his  knees, 
began  to  read  the  prayers  for  the  dying  and 
the  "  absolution."  He  had  heard  the  poor 


sinner's  publicly  made  confession,  and  there 
was  no  time  to  stickle  for  form. 

It  was  a  half-hour  later,  perhaps,  when,  the 
religious  services  over,  the  visitors  passed  out 
of  the  little  shanty.  Stopping  at  the  door 
for  a  moment's  whispered  conversation  with 
her  father,  Babette  returned  to  the  old 
woman's  bedside,  and,  slipping  a  roll  of  bills 
into  her  hands,  turned  and  came  away.  A 
moment  afterwards  Nick's  wife  gently  re- 
moved the  money  from  the  relaxed  fingers, 
and  dropped  it  into  her  pocket  before  Nick 
should  see  it.  The  old  gypsy  never  knew 
that  it  was  there. 

"  Well,"  said  Colonel  Le  Charmant,  as, 
walking  beside  the  two  police  -  officers,  he 
followed  the  others  back  to  the  boat,  "  the 
Supreme  Judge  has  taken  this  case  out  of 
your  hands." 

The  spirit  of  the  party  as  they  set  sail  for 
home  was  very  different  from  that  of  the 
morning.  All  day  long  gay  songs  and 
laughter  had  floated  up  into  the  wind  that 
filled  the  white  sail ;  but  now,  although  the 
little  boat  skimmed  gayly  along  in  the  even- 
ing breeze,  no  sound  of  merriment  mingled 
with  the  ripple  that  followed  her  keel. 

Colonel  Le  Charmant  had  instructed  one 


of  the  hired  sailors  aboard  to  assume  com- 
mand on  the  home  journey ;  but  before  any 
one  had  realized  it  "Captain  Noute "  had 
donned  the  honors  again,  and  he  looked  so 
happy  as  he  stepped  on  deck  and  began  un- 
furling the  sail  that  it  would  have  seemed 
cruel  to  depose  him.  And  so  he  had  his 
way. 

As  they  steered  out  towards  the  channel 
Babette  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  shore.  It 
seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  fascination  for  her 
— as  a  country  visited  in  a  dream. 

All  the  people  in  the  cabin  had  looked 
strange  to  her — even  the  old  woman.  The 
children  of  her  memory  were  little  girls 
and  boys,  their  mother  a  pretty-faced  wom- 
an holding  a  baby.  She  had  never  been 
able  to  recall  a  picture  of  her  life  on  the 
shore  here  without  this  figure  of  a  pretty 
woman  sitting  at  the  cabin  door  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms. 

Everything  was  changed  now.  The  pretty 
mother  of  the  babes  of  eleven,  twelve,  and 
thirteen  years  ago  was  the  gaunt  middle- 
aged  woman  who  stood  sobbing  within  the 
door.  The  youngest  of  the  long-ago  babes 
was  a  strapping  barefooted  boy  as  tall  as 
his  father.  Even  the  face  of  the  beach 


203 

seemed  changed  and  the  expression  of  the 
cabin's  front. 

Volunteer  clumps  of  tall,  tufted  pine  sap- 
lings dotted  the  coast,  breaking  its  old  ex- 
panse, and  the  hovel  had  sent  out  patched 
additions  to  its  architecture  —  "  improve- 
ments "  only  in  the  sense  of  affording  more 
sleeping  space  within. 

The  sounds  and  odors  of  the  sea-shore 
alone  were  true  to  the  past.  Its  waters 
lapped  against  the  beach,  and  the  winds 
moaned  as  of  yore.  Its  breath  was  still  red- 
olent of  the  mingled  odors  of  wet  sands 
and  drying  pine-straw ;  its  oyster-beds,  half 
exposed  now  at  low-tide  ;  damp,  oozing  bar- 
nacles on  the  old  wharf-stumps ;  the  wind- 
shaken  fish-nets. 

Babette  had  never  had  any  clear  recollec- 
tion of  her  life  here ;  but  when  she  had 
stepped  upon  the  sands  to-day  with  this 
identical  breath  of  twelve  years  ago  blowing 
into  her  face,  stirring  her  hair,  she  was  for  a 
moment  almost  overcome  with  the  vividness 
of  the  memory-pictures  that  came  crowding 
before  her  eyes.  And  so  she  noted  the 
changes.  The  visit  had  been  more  painful 
to  the  refined,  sensitive  girl  than  any  one 
knew. 


204 


This  was  why,  while  the  others  talked  of 
the  pitiful  story  as  the  boat  moved  away, 
she  sat  silent,  and  gazed  with  tear-filling 
eyes  at  the  little  cabin  door,  lifted  now  into 
sight  even  in  its  shadowed  place  by  a  last 
lingering  shaft  of  sunlight.  This  was  why 
she  was  first  to  see,  and  to  call  to  the  others 
to  look,  where  presently  every  one  was  seen 
to  come  out  of  the  lighted  cabin  door — cry- 
ing. 

So  it  was  that  they  knew  that  the  old 
gypsy  was  dead. 

The  story  is  told.  And  yet  this  was  some 
years  ago.  All  the  principal  actors  in  the 
little  histor>r  are  still  living,  and  living  peo- 
ple's stories  grow  from  day  to  day,  whether 
they  are  written  down  or  not. 

Everybody  who  was  in  New  Orleans  in 
the  winter  of  1885  will  remember  the  sensa- 
tion produced  in  society  by  the  debut  of 
Miss  Babette  Le  Charmant.  Stories  of  her 
beauty  and  accomplishments  were  on  every 
tongue,  and  her  romantic  history  was  only 
an  added  attraction.  Most  marvellous  tales 
were  told  even  wherever  a  half-dozen  com- 
mon people  talked  together.  As  when  one 
said,  standing  in  the  French  market : 


205 

"An' "w'at  you  t'ink?  Dey  say  all  dat 
money  w'at  her  fodder  is  pay  her  for  teach 
her  little  sisters  an*  brudders  —  dey  say  she 
is  give  every  las'  picayune  to  doze  low-down 
dagoes  'cross  de  lake,  to  bury  dat  old  devil 
w'at  stole  her.  W'at  you  t'ink  about  dat, 
eh?" 

"Oh,  well  —  me,  I  t'ink  she  must  be  one 
good  Christian,  yas.  If  it  was  me,  I  would 
let  'em  pitch  de  old  woman  in  de  lake." 

"An'  me,  too,  I  would.  Anyhow,  she 
prove  she  was  one  good  Christian  de  way 
she  rz/fuse  to  take  dat  Bondurante  money. 
Me,  I  say,  when  somebody  got  a  chance  to 
grab  some  money  and  dey  rz/fuse  it — so,  just 
for  principle,  what  nobody  dont  know  nutting 
about — well,  dat's  w'at  I  call  rz/ligion  !" 

"  An'  me,  too.  Dat's  true.  Well,  she  got 
her  reward  in  dis  life.  I  b'lieve  doze  peop' 
w'at  try  for  reward  for  everyt'ing  in  dis 
worl',  dey  don't  sometimes  always  get  it, 
no." 

"  Dat's  true.  An'  maybe  w'en  dey  look 
for  it  in  heaven,  dey  find  it  dis  side.  Well, 
some  people  is  lucky,  anyhow.  Dey  say  her 
fodder  is  give  her  one  diamond  chain  for 
roun'  her  neck  wid  t'irteen  stone  big  like  my 
little  finger-nail !" 


206 


"  Finger-nail !     Ah,  bah  !" 

"  Like  my  /'//;«£-nail,  yas !  Dey  say  he  is 
double  all  de  expenses  he  been  had  for  edu- 
cate an'  raise  all  de  udder  chillens  an'  put  it 
in  diamonds  for  her.  Wat  you  t'ink?" 

"  Oh,  well — I  t'ink  he  is  right.  If  I  t'ought 
somebody  would  do  me  like  dat,  I  would  try 
to  loss  myself  too." 

"  Yas,  but  may&e  if  you  loss  yo'self,  you 
wou'n'  find  yo'self  no  more — eh?" 

So,  with  good-natured  pleasantry,  the  story 
passed  from  lip  to  lip. 

For  a  long,  happy  year  Babette's  life  was 
a  gay  round  of  social  triumphs.  The  ac- 
knowledged belle  of  the  old  French  city,  she 
was  the  guest  of  honor  at  all  gatherings  —  a 
pet  with  old  and  young  alike. 

The  radiant  little  Creole  maiden,  who  had 
grown  up  within  the  four  walls  of  a  single 
square  with  only  the  companionship  of  a 
quaint  old-fashioned  family,  with  a  serious 
intellectual  student  to  direct  her  reading, 
was  a  novel  product,  as  charming  as  she  was 
unique.  If  her  single  popular  "accomplish- 
ment "  was  playing  the  harp  and  singing 
the  old-time  songs  of  Madame  Bondurante's 
youth,  or  Clarisse's  folk-lore  patois  jingles, 


'THE   ACKNOWLEDGED    BELI.E   OF  THE   OLD   FRENCH    CITY" 


207 


it  was  bewitching  enough  to  turn  all  the 
young  men's  heads  agog,  even  if  her  sweet- 
ness and  beauty  had  not  already  done  it. 

With  the  more  thoughtful  she  loved  to 
discuss  the  old  classics,  or  to  naively  express 
her  own  opinions  upon  the  philosophers  of 
the  day  —  her  familiar  friends  of  old  Dr. 
Bondurante's  library. 

Of  course  she  had  lovers  by  the  score,  who 
would  have  been  glad  to  rob  her  father  a 
second  time.  But  though  she  called  them 
all  her  friends,  and  in  the  atmosphere  of  de- 
votion at  home  and  abroad  her  story  seemed 
to  grow  happier  and  sweeter  every  day,  it 
remained  for  Somebody  not  a  stranger  to 
turn  it  into  a  love-story. 

If  this  Somebody  has  not  been  mentioned 
very  often  during  these  last  pages,  it  is  not 
his  fault,  as  he  has  been  ever  near,  ever  de- 
voted, ever  faithful  to  every  promise  of  his 
early  life.  If  he  had  tried  very  hard  to  turn 
her  life  into  a  love-story  two  years  before, 
and  to  shield  her  from  the  life  of  poverty 
she  had  chosen,  we  have  seen  that  he  had 
not  succeeded.  The  little  maid  would  have 
her  way  then.  But  at  last,  after  two  years, 
with  everybody's  approval,  the  happy  end- 
ing came  to  his  long  waiting,  and  there 


208 


was  a  great,  grand  wedding  in  the  French 
quarter. 

And  then  the  story  of  Babette  moved 
away  up-town  on  the  American  side  of  the 
city,  in  the  district  of  beautiful  homes  and 
spreading  gardens.  There,  in  a  picturesque, 
beautiful  house  sitting  in  the  midst  of  a 
great  square,  surrounded  by  lawns  and  flow- 
er borders,  the  story  still  goes  on. 

People  driving  past  the  house  always  look 
in,  hoping  to  see  the  beautiful  mistress  sit- 
ting beside  the  white-haired  grandmother 
within  the  rose-bowered  balcony,  as  they  are 
wont  to  do  on  summer  evenings ;  and  they 
often  smile  at  the  funny  blinking  fellow  who 
tends  the  garden  and  sits  grinning  happily 
on  the  curbing  while  he  turns  the  sprinkling- 
hose  from  one  flower-bed  to  another. 

Needless  to  say  Noute  is  perfectly  happy. 
As  his  head  is  "  not  much  good  for  think- 
ing," perhaps  he  does  not  realize  that  it  was 
the  timely  thrust  he  gave  the  old  gypsy 
many  years  ago,  when  he  turned  her  into  the 
Bondurante  gate,  that  saved  Babette's  life, 
and  his  faithfulness  to  her  afterwards  in 
bringing  her  own  to  her  that  preserved  the 
only  unquestionable  witnesses  to  her  iden- 
tity. 


209 

He  knows,  at  least,  that  she  is  ever  in  sight, 
and  safe  and  happy  in  the  keeping  of  him 
whom  he  loves  next  best  to  herself. 

For  himself  life  holds  every  possible  bless- 
ing, even  to  a  perennial  growth  of  vigorous 
cocoa -grass  adown  long  garden  -  walks,  to 
wage  daily  war  upon.  What  more  could  he 
ask? 

The  Somebody  of  the  love-story,  already 
one  of  the  most  popular  and  successful 
young  physicians  of  the  South,  is  growing 
every  year  in  professional  reputation.  He 
says  he  owes  it  all  to  Dr.  Bondurante ;  but 
those  who  know  him  for  himself,  who  es- 
teem his  high  character  and  love  his  sympa- 
thetic presence  in  the  sick-room,  say  that  no 
man  could  have  made  him  what  he  is. 

Some  of  the  greatest  triumphs  of  his  skill 
have  been  in  the  "  Free  Clinic,"  where  poor 
sufferers,  unable  to  pay  in  money,  have  gone 
away  well  and  whole,  blessing  his  name. 

But  the  proudest  day  of  his  life  was  that 
on  which  the  little  Creole  girl  whom  he  had 
gone  to  teach  in  the  old  French  house  add- 
ed his  name  to  her  own. 

THE   END 


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